Mel Lyman told us that this time, there would be not water into wine. I tell you that the blood of the innocent will rain down until you hear my voice.
I am the last warrior of the true Revolution!
What began in Chicago by Daley’s jackboot thugs beating us will end in Chicago with the surrender of the government’s control of the destruction of our Mother the Earth.
The old warriors may have faded but the REVOLUTION has begun again!
Join me and save lives. Refuse me, and the blood of innocents will be on your head.
I will prevail until the end.”
Harris stopped and looked up. “Whew, that’s a bit to chew on.” He handed the plastic bag to Carter Washington.
“Nice touch, the thumbprint in blood. He’s taunting us. He wants us to know exactly who he is.”
“So, what do you think? Your case now?” Harris asked.
“Looks like. This guy doesn’t sound like your garden-variety rage case, either. He is old-school radical. What’s this thing about ‘old warriors’? What do you think he means?”
“I think that’s where Cole comes in.” Harris shrugged.
“So, have you talked to him?”
“He’s in the air on the way to DC. I have messages at the hotel.”
“I’ll have my guys pick him up at the airport. I need to hear the tape you mentioned. Anything else the receptionist can tell us?”
“Not much to tell. She hung up on him the first time he called, thinking he was just another whack job. The tape’s got the rest.”
“First things first. We have got to get Sage on the phone. I’ll have our people set up a network line and be ready to trace the incoming.” Carter paused a moment. “We haven’t got a clue when, where, or how this joker could or would use a bomb.” Carter looked at Harris and made a clicking sound with the side of his mouth. “I hate the wait.”
Cole landed at Dulles at 4:30 to find two Federal Agents waiting at the end of the ramp, holding a small sign that said simply, “C. Sage.”
“Lookin’ for me?”
“Cole Sage?” A tall, athletic Hispanic man offered his hand as his partner offered FBI identification. “I’m Special Agent Eric Peralta. This is my partner, Brian Julian. We need to get you to a phone in a hurry. A friend of yours in Chicago, a Lieutenant Harris, is anxious to talk to you.”
“Enough to send the FBI?” Cole frowned.
“Actually, we took over for Harris. Our man in Chicago is Carter Washington. Know him?”
“No. What’s this all about?” Cole pressed.
“Your old newspaper got a threatening call. The caller claims to have a bomb and will set it off unless he talks to you.”
“I get threats all the time. Crackpots and crazies. What makes this special?”
“That’s what they want to talk to you about, I guess. We were just assigned to pick you up and get you to a phone ASAP.”
“All right, let’s do it,” Cole said.
“Sir, if you give me your luggage tags, I’ll pick up your bags and meet you at the car,” Julian offered.
“Thanks, but this is all I’ve got,” Cole said, lifting his old worn leather suit bag.
“We can use the airport security office. There’s a secure line there.” Peralta gestured toward the left.
Inside the security office, three desks were lined up one behind the other. One was covered two feet high in old magazines and newspapers, and another, the remains of someone’s Taco Bell lunch. Peralta pulled out the chair and lifted the handset. He punched in a series of numbers and handed the phone to Cole.
“Carter,” a voice said after one ring.
“Cole Sage here. How can I help?”
“Good to hear from you, Mr. Sage. Good flight?”
“Yes, fine.” Cole was surprised by Carter Washington’s casual, friendly manner.
“Somebody here would really like to talk to you.”
After a moment, Cole heard a familiar voice come on the line. “Hey, we got a problem here.” It was Tom Harris.
“And I suppose it’s my fault.”
“Looks that way. How are you, Cole?”
“That depends on what you’ve got going on.”
“It might be something, it might be nothing. But we’re on high alert and treating this like the real deal. This morning, Olajean took a call from a guy asking for you. Very matter of fact and very convincing. He said if he didn’t speak to you, he was going to set off a bomb. Here’s the kicker: Within minutes of the call, there was a letter addressed to you. You want me to read it? I already peeked at it. He says unless he talks to you tomorrow at noon, he’s going to detonate a bomb.”
“So, I guess I talk to the guy.”
“Agent Washington has put together a network line so you can do it from DC.” There was a pause on the line for several seconds. “Who the hell is Mel Lyman?” Harris asked softly.
“What?” Cole wasn’t sure he’d heard right.
“Mel Lyman. Who is he?”
“Sixties radical, thought he was God. At least, that’s what he wanted his followers to think. Had a commune, a family, like Manson only they didn’t kill anybody. Why?”
“The guy quotes him.”
“You gotta be kidding,” Cole said in disbelief. “I hadn’t heard about Lyman in years. Your guy is old-school radical.”
“Have you ever had any connection to Lyman’s people?”
“None that I know of.” Cole tried to flip through his memory for any connection. There was none.
“Well, all right, so we wait until tomorrow. So, what are you doing in DC?” Harris’s voice shifted to conversation with ease.
“I’m getting an award for the piece I did on child abuse,” Cole said dismissively. “So, how is the call going to work?”
“No sweat. The FBI guys will hook you up with a phone and walk you through things. Cole, follow their lead, okay? No Lone Ranger stuff.”
“Tom, I’m surprised at you. Why would you think I would—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just watch it. Bombs start going off, and it’s on me, you know. Just be careful,” Harris interrupted.
“All right, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Congrats on the award. See ya.”
Agent Peralta stepped forward. “Can I give you a lift to the hotel?”
“That would be great.” Cole smiled and moved toward the door.
* * * * *
The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children hadn’t missed a thing. The hotel was elegant and more than accommodating. The presence of the FBI probably didn’t hurt, either. Cole’s room was rich but still livable. After a shower and a brief nap, he reviewed his speech for the evening and was about to dress when he got a knock on the door.
Two men in dark blue suits stood in the doorway and presented their Secret Service IDs. In all the excitement of being picked up by the FBI and Harris’s call, Cole forgot about meeting the president. The agents, Winfield and Hafer, were cordial and yet all business. They explained protocol, transportation, seating at the dinner, and gave Cole a light grilling on the situation in Chicago. Satisfied that he was as in the dark as everybody else, they all shook hands and left Cole to finish dressing.
Cole’s driver took him to the Ritz-Carlton’s underground parking garage and was cleared to enter a staging area on the west end. A young woman of about 25 wearing a sleek black velvet evening gown met Cole’s car. She gave Cole a brilliant smile and introduced herself playfully as his date for the evening. In fact, she was Ashley Portafiano, Gerald Fonseca’s Administrative Assistant. She studied journalism at Columbia and law at Georgetown. She had confidence and a rapier wit. Her days as anyone’s assistant were numbered, and Cole found her totally charming.
The meeting with the president was cordial and brief. He swept into the anteroom about five minutes before the formal event was to begin. Cole found him friendly and charismatic. Any thought of this man being dumb disappeared when he looked Cole in t
he eyes. The President complimented Cole on his career and even commented on his recent move to San Francisco. He was well briefed, but you would never have known he was working from a short list of facts.
Cole ate his dinner but couldn’t remember a moment later what it was. The faces he saw before him at the tables intimidated him. Faces he knew as well as his own. The room was an A-list of movers and shakers. Hollywood, Washington, and the media were out in force to support the work of the NCMEC.
The President was received politely in the mostly left-leaning room but managed to win a smile from even his detractors with his self-effacing humor. His remarks about Cole and his career were glowing, as one would expect for the evening’s honored award winner. What was surprising were the ovations that interrupted the President’s speech. During the standing ovation when Cole was brought to the podium, the President put his hand on Cole’s shoulder and said, “You’re a mighty popular fella. Maybe you should run for something.”
“My life?” quipped Cole in response.
The President laughed heartily and slapped Cole on the back. It was that moment Cole realized he left the copy of his speech in the anteroom. He made a short but heartfelt appeal to the room not to just get excited about child abuse at an awards dinner but to take their zeal and really make a difference. He then reminded the audience and constituents of the need for vigilance and enforcement of the laws passed in the previous year on behalf of America’s children. He thanked the President for his kind words and the Board of the NCMEC for the honor and was back in his seat in less than 10 minutes. Cole wiped his sweating palms on his pant legs and settled back for the rest of the speeches.
The evening ended with a whirlwind tour of the room, arm in arm with Ashley Portafiano. He was greeted by senators and governors, teased by fellow journalists, hugged and even occasionally kissed on the cheek by beautifully gowned movie stars, all recorded by a myriad of flashing cameras.
Gerald Fonseca approached Cole with a broad smile and gave him a handshake that was just a little too long for comfort.
“Cole, my friend, it was a grand evening! We’ve received dozens of checks and even more pledges. You have truly made a difference. I can’t begin to show our gratitude. Please don’t forget us. This work must go on and must grow.” Fonseca paused. He looked down at the floor and a deep frown creased his brow. “You know, I was an abused child. I was raised by an uncle who sexually abused me from the time I was three until I ran away at 12. Luckily for me, I went to a Salvation Army shelter to get out of the snow. A woman named Sally O’Connelly fed me, gave me some new clothes, and gently coaxed my story out of me. She saved my life, Cole. I went to a foster home, and the Fonseca’s adopted me. I vowed to God that I would spend my life helping kids like me. And by His grace, here I am. Surprised?” Fonseca smiled.
“A little.” Cole wasn’t sure what Fonseca wanted to hear.
“Just don’t forget us.”
“You don’t have to worry about that.” Cole offered his hand to Fonseca and left the ballroom.
Shortly before 11, Cole was dropped off at the Hay-Adams. In his room, he kicked off his shoes and removed his dinner jacket. He slipped his hands through his blue and red suspenders and slipped them off his shoulders.
Cole saw his reflection in the mirror at the end of the bed. He took a long hard look at the man before him. He reflected on this night and how far he was from his boyhood home. In the past, Cole interviewed a couple of American Presidents and numerous foreign leaders. But tonight was different. He shared a joke with the most powerful man on earth. What a weird feeling.
Cole thought of the beautiful women and their fine gowns and jewels. Most of the gowns cost more than his whole wardrobe. He saw one necklace that was worth more than all his earthly possessions! Yet here he was. He finished dressing and got into bed. He ate dinner with the President of the United States of America. Some people would say you can’t get much higher than that. As Cole lay in the dark in this very expensive hotel, in the Capital of the greatest nation on earth, his mind drifted back to a night long ago.
When Cole was a junior in high school, he went with a group of friends to a concert in an exhibit hall at the State Fair. On the bill were Santana, The Blues Image, and Janis Joplin. It was Cole’s first concert. They passed out apples at the door, and there were lots of joints and leather bags of wine from straps around people’s necks in the audience. It was loud, smoky, and never forgotten.
As Santana exited the stage, Cole made his way to the front and positioned himself at the apron. He came to see Janis Joplin and was going to get up close. Standing not too far from him was a tall black man with a huge Afro, a goatee, and a loud African print shirt. Cole recognized him immediately from the cover of Janis’s album I Got Dem Ol’ Kozmic Blues Again Mama!
Cole approached the man and said, “You’re Snooky Flowers, you play with Janis.”
“That’s right, you seen our show before?”
“No, I recognize you from the album cover.”
“Right on. You like Janis?”
“She’s my very favorite,” Cole said without hesitation.
“You ever meet her?” the musician asked.
“I wish. This is my first concert, I’ve never met anybody famous except for you.”
“Damn. I never been called famous before. How’d you like to meet Janis?”
“More than anything,” Cole said, staring up at the tall smiling man in front of him.
“Then so you shall. Follow me.”
Cole and Flowers walked behind the stage and outside the exhibit hall. There set two white trailers. Flowers did a cha-cha up three metal steps leading to one of the trailers, opened the door, and motioned Cole to go in. Without a thought, Cole bound up the stairs and into the trailer. To the left of the door was a brown plaid couch. Flowers pointed at it and told Cole to have a seat.
“Janis, you got company.”
“I’m not ready yet,” said a crackling voice from behind a folding door in the rear of the trailer. “Hold on, I’m comin’, Hold on I’m comin’,” the unmistakable voice began to sing. “Don’t you ever be sad, Lean on me in times of bad…”
Cole’s heart thumped in his chest. It was Janis! He quickly ran his hand through his hair, smoothing, straightening, anything! He was going to meet his favorite singer. He loved the Beatles, he worshipped Dylan, but this was Janis! She had been on his turntable since he saved the $2.99 to buy the monaural copy of the Big Brother and the Holding Company album with “Down on Me.” He was the first person he knew to know her name. He bought Cheap Thrills from a kid at school for two bucks because the boy forgot to send back the “I don’t want it card” to Columbia Record Club and they sent him the record. Cole played it on “repeat” so many times it was nearly worn out, and that voice was now behind the brown plastic folding door. He couldn’t breathe; he panicked and looked for a way out. Then the folding door pulled back and there she stood.
“How do I look?” Janis Joplin looked at Cole and smiled.
She was wearing a pair of purple crushed velvet bellbottom pants, a powder blue silk blouse with sleeves that spread like butterfly wings at the wrists, and a knit vest. Around her neck was a dark blue feather boa. Her hair was parted on the side, and hung about her shoulders like a frizzy lion mane. Cole thought she was beautiful.
“Wonderful,” Cole stammered.
“Hi, I’m Janis.” The singer reached out to shake hands with Cole.
“I’m Cole. I love the new album.” Cole felt his face go red. What a stupid thing to say, he thought.
“Thanks, you’re kind of cute. How old are you anyway?”
“Seventeen.”
“God, I hated being 17. I hated high school, how ’bout you?”
“It’s okay, I guess.”
“Stick with it. It’s a bitch but ya gotta have that diploma, ya know?”
“I’m tryin’.”
There was a knock on the door. A longhaired man with thick glasses a
nd a pointed beard stuck his head through, smiled and raised his spread hand, signaling five minutes.
“I’m ready, Slim.” Janis gave the man a big smile and a wink. “Well, there’s work to be done! Is there something we can play for ya, Cole?”
“‘Piece of My Heart’ is my favorite song,” Cole offered.
Janis looked down at the floor. “Ah man, I’m sorry; we don’t do that one anymore.”
The low bump of drums and bass could be felt and heard from beyond the door. Janis looked up at the door, went past Cole, and opened it.
“Nice to meet you. Hope you enjoy the show. Peace.” And she was gone.
Cole stood and left the trailer. It took several minutes but he finally spotted his friends waving at him from about the fifth row. Just as he reached them, the chunka-chunka of the band’s warm-up stopped, the lights went down, and there was a snap of the snare drum. The band broke into a Bo Diddley beat. A brilliant white spotlight shot to the right side of the stage, and Janis emerged shaking a pair of maracas. The band went into a blaring version of the song “Bo Diddley,” and Janis was wailing.
At the end of “Get it While You Can,” Janis held the microphone with both hands and acted like the stand was her only support. The hair around her face was stuck to her from sweat. She pushed it straight back away from her face. With a quick snap, she took the mic from the stand and began to talk to the audience.
“You know how sometimes you get the blues? Bad blues, lowdown blues, and you feel so all alone in the world. You ever been there?” The crowd roared back in confirmation of the blues. “Sometimes it don’t take nothin’ to bring it on, but sometimes, sometimes somebody brings ’em down on ya. Well, tonight I met a new friend and within a couple of minutes, I gave him a lowdown dirty case of the Kosmic blues. And just to try and make it right, we’re gonna do this one just for him.” Janis looked down into the audience, pointed right at Cole and blew him a kiss.
The band kicked into a blistering version of “Piece of My Heart” and Janis stomped, kicked, and screamed her way through an extended version that lasted nearly 10 minutes. Cole stood, pumping his fists in the air and singing along at the top of his lungs.
Helix of Cole Page 9
