CHAPTER 8
The house felt cold as Cole dropped his suit bag on the entry floor. He stood for a moment and looked around. He had been gone only a few days but it seemed like a lifetime ago he stood in the same spot and stopped, looking back, double-checking things, excited for his trip to meet the President and, although he hated to admit it, get a little praise for the work he took such great pride in. Cole loved this house, it was home, and he felt safe here. As he glanced around, he wished he could turn back the clock and erase the images and horrors he saw since he left. Those memories did not belong here.
Cole’s mind drifted back to a sunny Sunday afternoon. He was about 16, sitting at the snack bar in his parent’s home. In front of him on the counter lay a guitar book. His dad was at the sink cleaning up the afternoon dishes. His mother was putting away the leftovers. The memory seemed to warm Cole. He smiled at the thought of how his dad sang old folksongs as Cole tried to strum them out on the guitar. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t get the B flat cord in the songbook. Time and time again, his dad would make a hiccup yodel noise like Alfalfa in the old Our Gang movies when the part in the song came with the mangled B flat chord. That scene in the old kitchen was one of Cole’s favorite memories.
But Cole had another part of the memory. He remembered his dad laying two dollars and the keys to the car on the counter.
“What we need is some ice cream!” his father said with a grin. “Guitar playing can really take it out of ya.”
Cole had his driver’s license only three days and this would be his first real solo flight. He drove around for a while the day he passed his driving test, but that was just a celebration lap. This was a bonafide trip, to the store and back, all on his own. He was thrilled and scared. Cole remembered the big Pontiac Bonneville and its soft, sofa-sized front seat. Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels screamed “Devil with the Blue Dress,” and he turned it up loud on the four-speaker radio. The window was rolled down and wind tousled his hair. He was the king of the road.
Twenty minutes later, he returned with a half gallon of rocky road ice cream and The Four Tops still ringing in his ears as he reached for the front doorknob. Before he could open it, however, it swung open. His father stood in front of him with a strange look on his face. Cole could hear his mother sobbing somewhere inside the door. His father opened his mouth to speak but no words came. Cole could still remember how he suddenly thought he would throw up.
“Uncle George is dead,” his father blurted out in a flood of tears.
Cole was in shock. In the pit of his stomach, he felt a knot the size of a cantaloupe. The house hung heavy with grief. His mother’s younger brother was dead. He was Cole’s favorite and only 34 years old. After a time, his father related the phone message they received while Cole happily drove to the store. His uncle dropped dead while kick starting his motorcycle. His wife and children, his sister and her husband, and their children all were standing around him. A brain aneurysm brought on by an earlier back surgery—he was dead before he hit the ground.
That day, Cole tasted the reality of his own mortality. It was a taste he would never forget. Real or imagined, there was a taste to his grief, his fear, his introduction to death. Death was not something far away that happened to old people in rest homes. It could happen to anyone—it had, it had come to his family, his uncle, and it would someday come to him. Today, as Cole stood in his entryway, he again could taste death. He saw it in Chicago, and he felt a deep unsettling sense that it was going to follow him to San Francisco.
Cole bent and scooped up the mail scattered on the floor. He didn’t look at any of it, just walked it to the kitchen and laid it on the counter. The message machine was blinking “5.” Cole hit the play button and turned to the cupboard to get a glass for water.
“Hi Gran’pa. Have fun on the airplane. I miss you. Here’s mom.” The phone clunked hard on something, then Erin spoke. “Hi, sorry we missed you. Just wanted to wish you a safe trip and say we are proud of you! Say hi to the Prez for me. Love you. See you when you get home.”
The next voice was the cable company offering a pay-per-view special, after that it was the dry cleaners reminding him of clothes to pick up, and the fourth was a “we missed you at poker” from a woman he wished wasn’t in the group. The last message was from Erin again.
“Dad, are you there yet? Please pick up.” There was a pause of several seconds. “We saw you on CNN. Are you okay? I’m worried sick about you. Please call as soon as you get in. Love you.” As she was hanging up, he heard his son-in-law Ben say something he couldn’t quite hear in the background. Then Erin spoke again. “He’s not home yet. I wish—” The machine clicked off.
Cole finished off two glasses of water and went to shower. The water in the shower was hot and felt like a balm, soothing and rinsing away the stress and fatigue of the flight. He closed his eyes and hummed the melody from an old song he couldn’t seem to remember the name of. He washed his hair but didn’t shave. It took a minute or two of digging around in his bottom drawer, but he finally found a pair of thick brown wool socks with a red stripe at the top that he always found to be a warm comfort. He dressed in jeans and an old grey sweatshirt. The feel of casual clothes added to Cole’s sense of being home.
When he called Erin, he got the message machine. He tried the cell phone, but it was transferred to voicemail, too. He dialed Chuck Waddell, his editor, at home.
“You charm the husk right off of the corn—”
“Christopher! No serenades please!” Cole shouted into the phone.
“Oh shit! I thought it would be Chuck. Sorry! Cole, is that you?” Chris Ramos, Chuck Waddell’s domestic partner, cook, and decorator for more than 20 years frantically jabbered apologies.
“Okay, already, I get it. What’s with the Mame revival?”
“Now, Cole, you can’t tell Chuck about this. You know how furious he gets when I goof around on the phone. I swear I thought it was him. Are you okay? Chuck said something about a bomb.”
“Sure, sure, I’m all right. He’s not at the office this late, is he?”
“No, he went to some dinner for that city council guy, the fat one, oh, what’s his name?”
“If you’re up when he gets home, tell him I’ll see him first thing.” Cole cleared his throat. “You’ve brought the cakewalk back into style, Maaammmme,” Cole sang as he hung up the phone. He suddenly felt silly, and his face flushed.
At 8:30, the phone rang. Even though he was half-dozing on the sofa, Cole tried to sound cheerful when he answered the phone.
“How are you?” Erin’s voice was full of concern.
“Great. How are you guys? I guess you know about my big weekend, huh?”
“What are you going to do?”
“Do?”
“Yes, do. A terrorist bomber or whatever picks you out to use as a contact! Do they know who he is, where he is, anything? Why you?”
“His name is Jason Reed. Other than that, we know nothing.” Cole tried to sound at ease.
“Shouldn’t you be in protective custody or witness protection or something?” Erin pleaded.
“Sweetheart, he wasn’t trying to kill me. I’m fine, I’m gonna be fine. I appreciate your concern, but really it’s going to be fine, really.” Guilt nearly kept Cole from continuing. “If you want to really make me feel good, promise me that you and Jenny will stay out of the city until this thing is straightened out.”
“I knew it! Why? What do you know that you’re not telling me? What about Ben, is he safe?” Erin sounded just like her mother. The worry and rapid-fire questioning was Ellie’s trademark when she was worried.
“Seems like a hospital would be the safest place in town.”
“Very funny. You would tell me if you were in any danger, wouldn’t you?”
There was a long pause. Cole couldn’t lie to her. He didn’t want to lie to her, but he knew that he’d never tell her.
“I’ve really been hungry for those chicken enchi
ladas you make. Are they going to be on the menu any time soon?”
“Aarrghh! You are impossible.”
“Part of my charm,” Cole said brightly.
“How about Sunday?”
“Lunch or dinner?”
“How about 5 o’clock?”
“Wonderful. By the way, the President said to say ‘hello.’”
“I’m sorry, how was the awards dinner?”
“A bit overshadowed. But it was kind of a kick to meet the ruler of the free world. Nice guy, you’d like him. Even if you didn’t vote for him.”
“Neither did you!” Erin finally laughed.
“Beside the point.”
“See you Sunday.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Dad?”
“Still here.”
“Please, don’t be a hero. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.”
“Erin, it will take more than some old ’60s burnout to get me. Besides, I’m in the City of the Summer of Love. All the hippy roots are here. Peace, baby.”
“That’s just groovy, but that ’60s burnout killed nearly 50 people. Please be careful.”
“I will. See you Sunday,” Cole said, a little softer than he meant to.
Cole left the kitchen without eating, went into the living room, and slumped down into his big leather sofa. Within minutes, he dropped into a deep sleep. At 12:30, he woke and went to bed.
* * * * *
“What’s that smell?” Cole said, sticking his head in Chuck Waddell office.
“Ethiopian curry.”
“I hope it tasted better than it smells!”
“Part of what you smell is Finley’s chorizo and onion dog with kraut. The curry was fine.” Chuck pointed to a chair. “Welcome back.” He flicked a switch on his desk. “Cheryl, can we get somebody to get this trash out of here? It’s making my eyes water.” Turning back to Cole, he said, “So, where do we start?”
“We don’t,” Cole said as he lowered himself into the stiff oak chair in front of the editor’s antique desk.
“You serious?”
“Yeah. Well…not yet.” Cole paused. “This thing isn’t over, Chuck.”
“How do you mean?”
“He’s sending a letter. Wants it printed. Some sort of manifesto, his intent, demands, or whatever. Nobody knows about this yet. The Feds didn’t tell the media.” Cole gave a shrug. “I don’t know about printing something like this. What’s policy? It’s like blackmail.”
“Depends, I guess, on what it says. But if it’s ‘Print it or I blow up the bridge’ or something, we print. What about the Feds?” Chuck was pacing behind his desk.
“An agent named Washington, Carter Washington, flew out with me from Chicago. I imagine we will hear from him this morning. Good guy. He was my first contact with the FBI in Washington. Been with me since.”
“So, what do we know about this Reed?”
“Not much. Washington said the FBI is working 24/7 to get a background. It’s amazing the guy volunteered his name. That means he’s either resigned to getting killed, has no background, or is deluded enough to think he’ll come out on top. Wait until you hear the tape of this guy. There is something in his voice that gives you shivers. It’s like he knows things, I mean, like down deep inside you. Not that he told my fortune or any psychic stuff, he just…I don’t know, it was just really creepy.”
“Are you sure you weren’t just freaked out by the bombings? Since when do you get spooked?”
“I don’t know. I’ve interviewed a lot of bad guys, but this was on a whole other level.”
“So, what’s your gut feeling? Is he coming to town? Are we going to get what Chicago got?” Chuck stopped pacing and faced Cole. “You know the kind of panic this could start? Not to speak of the economic impact. We are just now hitting 90 percent of pre-9/11 tourism. Another hit like that, and a lot of businesses would go under.” Chuck looked down at the top of his desk for a long moment before he spoke again. “How many died in Chicago?”
“Last I heard, 48. Almost a dozen more are critical. Half of them aren’t expected to make it. The nails, Chuck, you can’t believe the damage they did. I saw nails driven two inches into bricks and cement. They tore through people like they were made of bread. It was like nothing you can imagine. And for what? Some crazy rant about SUVs and Mother Earth and—” Cole stopped in mid-sentence. “He can do worse. He was just sending a message.” Cole looked down and scratched at a smudge on his trousers.
Chuck sat in his tall-backed green leather desk chair. “When is this letter supposed to be here?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Waddell, but there is an FBI agent who wants to see you.” Waddell’s secretary said, barely entering the room.
“First thing,” Cole said, smiling.
“Good morning!” Chuck Waddell stood and rounded his desk, offering his hand to Carter Washington. “Welcome to the Chronicle.”
“Thank you. Good morning, Mr. Sage.”
“Cole, please.”
“Okay, Carter, then.” The FBI man gave Cole a warm smile. “It wouldn’t take Sherlock Holmes to see what you two have been discussing. I have some information I think you will find interesting. I do have to ask that we keep this out of your paper for a few days. Agreed?”
Chuck nodded and directed Washington to the chair beside Cole.
Washington handed Cole and Chuck each a light blue folder. “This is what we’ve been able to find out about Jason Weston Reed so far. Makes for some interesting reading. A lot of holes left to fill, though.” Washington sat and shifted the chair to face Cole better. “Reed was adopted by a pretty well-to-do New England family. They came from old textile money but really made their mark in real estate. Nobody is really sure of his age, one of those ‘found on the church steps’ deals. But best guess, about 60. He was a hellion from the word go, and by age 12 was shipped off to boarding school. Ran away at least twice a year until he turned 14, then he was gone for good.” Cole shifted in his seat. Angry teenagers become angrier adults.
“He contacted the family only once when he was about 17, asked for $10,000 to help a commune he joined. Seems kind of funny to ask rich people for money for a commune. They refused, he broke up the furniture and left. The mother died a short time later. They never heard from him again. The father died in 1984.
“The school records showed a kid with extreme outbursts of anger. Broke stuff, beat up other kids. Get this: He tried to poison some of his classmates by putting lye in the morning orange juice. Nobody drank it because of the bubbles and the smell. Just before he left the school the last time, he stole the gunpowder used for a ceremonial cannon and blew up a statue of the school’s founder.” Cole stifled a chuckle, thinking of some of his own high jinks. But Reed crossed way over that line.
“Next time he turns up his picture is in the American Avatar newspaper in Boston. It was one of those underground hippie papers. Like the Oracle or Berkeley Barb out here. Lots of hippie trippy political and dope-oriented stuff.”
“Do you have the picture?” Cole asked.
“Yeah, not very clear, but his name is in the caption.” Washington opened his briefcase and took out a 5-by-7 photo, handing it to Chuck. “Here, this is the last known picture of Reed.” Waddell handed the picture to Cole.
The photo was of a fair-skinned redhead with thick bushy hair that hung to his shoulders. He appeared to be about 15 or 16 and was standing on a street corner with an armload of newspapers. Dressed in bell bottoms and a T-shirt with a slogan of some sort that was obscured by the papers. Reed was barefoot and dirty. His mouth was open, and he appeared angry and yelling.
“His name appears as a member of the Mel Lyman family,” Washington continued. “An old Bureau file statement from an informant says that he was unceremoniously booted from the group for stealing and violent outbursts when confronted with any infractions of the rules. The informant also stated that Lyman was a bit unnerved by Reed’s constant hovering and his compl
ete worship and obsession with him.
“There’s no record of his ever getting a driver’s license, draft card, or being fingerprinted anywhere. He has no record of arrest for anything. He’s the primary suspect in the bombing of the Federal Reserve Bank in Denver in 1971. Fingerprints assumed to be his have been connected with numerous crimes—ranging from murder to bank robbery, bombings, poisonings, and burglary of federal property.
“He has been a shadow figure in the theft and distribution of arms and explosives and is the primary suspect in the chemical attacks on three National Guard installations. Because he has no arrests and no fingerprints on file, he’s invisible as far as the system is concerned.
“So, there you go. A 40-year-old grainy newspaper photo and a strong hunch that his fingerprints will match Mr. X in the unsolved files.”
“That’s our guy, huh?” Cole groaned.
“Pretty much. But I’ve saved the best for last.”
“What’s next? He helped plan 9/11?” Chuck said in disbelief.
“The bodies of two guys from Bakersfield were found in a trailer out in the desert near Las Vegas. Reed’s, or our Mr. X’s, prints were everywhere. The guy whose cell phone Reed used to make the calls to Chicago? Found in a dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant in LA. And last but not least, a Fernando Esparza was found in a 2005 Kia in back of a Wal-Mart in Bakersfield, same prints all over the car. The cherry on top? Mr. Esparza’s pickup was in a fender bender last night on Mission Street. Three Mexican gangster types were seen running from the scene. San Francisco PD ran the plates, saw the alert, dusted the car and—you got it—same prints. He’s here.”
Cole’s stomach tightened in a sick grip. Chuck stood and walked to the bookcase on the side of his office.
“Have you ever read Sins of the Fathers?” Chuck said, running his finger down the spine of an old volume on the third shelf. “Old, old book, 1850-something. I found it in an old house I rented years ago. Pretty dry reading. Thing is, the author traces the lineage of various villains in history. Seems there was always somebody who had done something terrible that was the father, grandfather, great-great-somebody-or-other, you get the idea. It always sets in motion events that effect generations to come. Don’t you find it interesting that Reed was an abandoned child? Makes you wonder: Is it the event or the product of some event years ago?”
Helix of Cole Page 14
