Helix of Cole

by Micheal Maxwell

  “Get this out of here,” Washington ordered. “Good work, people.”

  Like a tourist at a Greyhound bus station, Kazzas picked up the suitcase and made his way from the scene, into an unmarked white van waiting at the curb outside. In what may have been one of the few acts of kindness he had received in 40 years, Jennifer removed her FBI windbreaker and spread it over Jason Reed’s head and chest. From behind Cole, Washington put a hand on his shoulder.

  “How ’bout one of those mocha things you like so much?” he offered.

  Cole nodded and turned toward the door. As he reached the edge of the escalator, Cole turned and took a last look at Jason Reed. The legs that protruded from under the nylon windbreaker looked small and almost childlike. “Certainly doesn’t look like much from here, does he?”

  “They never do,” Washington said flatly. “They never do.”

  CHAPTER 14

  It took two tries to get the key in the lock. As the sound of the powerful Crown Victoria engine faded, Cole didn’t turn to see Carter Washington driving away. He turned back, crossed the porch, and sat on the top step. Everything on his street looked the same, but it felt different. Washington brought him home because, as he said, “When the shock wears off, you’ll want to be alone.” It was a kind gesture that Cole appreciated, but he really didn’t want to be alone.

  Once the blockade was removed, the media swarmed the front of the San Francisco Shopping Centre, but by then, Cole was long gone. Cole and Washington sat quietly in the Starbucks down the street and watched as the satellite dishes turned toward the sky and the cables were strung up and down the sidewalk. CNN, FOX, and the other TV networks tried to piece the story together. They interviewed anyone who walked by, grabbing and snatching any piece of information they could, most of which was hearsay and observations of people who watched from blocks away.

  The shoppers and tourists in the building when Reed jammed the elevator were nowhere to be found. The FBI was interviewing many, but most were on about their business or at Fisherman’s Wharf continuing with their visit to the city. Those who were injured had been whisked to undisclosed hospitals by the police, and all but the old woman who was thrown down the escalator and kicked by Reed was examined and sent on their way. Mary Alice Johnston of Elk River, Minnesota, suffered three broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder. She was staying overnight for observation purposes, all the while demanding that Nordstrom’s replace her bloodied and torn white pantsuit.

  The body of Jason Reed was bagged, tagged, and carried to the coroner’s white van. The suitcase with the bomb had been swept away by FBI technicians, and any sign of trouble was swept away with it. Within minutes, the barbed fork was removed from the escalator, and the shiny brass spiral was back in operation. Except for a couple of small dents on the grate along the floor, there was nothing to notice. Disaster had been the lifting of a finger away. The release of a $1.89 Radio Shack switch, and the peaceful setting Cole now saw before him could have been completely different. The beauty and excitement of San Francisco would have changed forever, and the third atomic bomb in history would have been used on innocent people.

  Cole took a deep breath of the crisp afternoon air. Nothing changed and yet everything changed. He looked down at his hands and rubbed his palms together. There was a stain. Not a visible stain, but it was there all the same: the unchangeable, indelible stain of the last 180 minutes, and nobody except Cole could see the blood on his hands.

  All the macho talk, fantasies of shootouts, sword fights, and Double-O status were replaying in Cole’s mind. The danger, excitement, and bloodless deaths of TV cowboys, secret agents, and cop dramas seemed as childish as the sentimental nostalgia they carried over all the years. The memories of summer afternoons playing cops and robbers or Errol Flynn on the deck of a pirate ship now seemed overshadowed by a dark foreboding.

  Cole had seen death. In Cambodia, he saw skulls stacked in pyramids. In Afghanistan, he saw heads on the end of spears as the warlords whipped their soldiers into a frenzy. In Chicago, he saw teen street gangs murder each other wholesale and been sickened and disheartened at the sight. As the dying bled out into the sand of the Middle East and on the sidewalks of the mean streets of America, Cole had seen the frailty of life. He heard the last words of the dying crying out—to Allah, Jesus, their wives, mothers—in indecipherable gurgling. Death was a horror. In all that he had seen, Cole Sage had been the detached observer. He was the newspaperman off to the side of the fight, always after the smoke cleared. Today, he felt the warmth of Jason Reed, smelled his breath, and heard his voice—then in an instant, by his own hand, stopped it all. Cole had taken a life. A life that could not be retrieved, replayed, or revived. Jason Reed ceased to exist, and Cole was to blame.

  A brisk wind swirled about the porch, sending a shiver up Cole’s back. He went in the house and looked around. It seemed dark and cool as though he left a window open. His café mocha and newspaper were still on the kitchen table. He went into the bedroom and pulled a sweater from the closet. As his head popped out of the neck of the sweater, Cole caught a glimpse of the phone next to the bed. He dialed Erin’s number and waited for her voice. He felt a sense of relief knowing he had family. He needed Erin; he needed just to hear her voice.

  “Hi! You’ve reached Ben and Erin.” Cole pursed his lips in disappointment.

  “Me, too!” Jenny squealed. “Leave a message!” Cole broke into a wide smile as her giggle closed the message.

  “It’s me. Just wanted to say ‘hi.’” Cole set down the receiver.

  The receiver hardly settled when the phone rang.

  “Cole?”

  He didn’t have time to even say hello before the voice on the other end of the line spoke.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Kelly, Ben’s mom. Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” Cole was surprised by the concern in her voice, a voice he hadn’t recognized at all.

  “You’re all over CNN. I was concerned.”

  “It’s been a wild morning.” He wasn’t sure how to continue.

  “Do you need to talk or would you rather—” Kelly wasn’t sure where she was going either.

  “I would rather not…” Cole wasn’t sure how to express his need to talk. If he said he didn’t want to be alone, that might come off as an invitation or like he was fishing for one. Her concern, her warmth, just the sound of her voice, amplified the cavernous hollow Cole felt inside. He still mourned the loss of Ellie. He found Sarah Spiegelman, and she was exactly what he would have chosen. She was beautiful, witty, romantic, and a seemingly perfect match but in a moment, she was gone.

  He didn’t want another romance; he certainly didn’t need any entanglements. He just needed someone to talk to. But that wasn’t it either; he wanted to be talked to. He wanted to listen. This woman who he didn’t know at all was concerned about him. He wanted to communicate with someone. Listen and respond, talk and get a response. He just didn’t want her to hang up.

  “That’s fine. I just wanted to see if you were okay. I tried calling Erin first, but she’s not home. Ben hadn’t heard the news.”

  “Kelly?”

  “Yes.”

  “I could really use a bit of conversation.”

  “Have you seen the news? You can’t really tell what is fact and what is fluff, you know what I mean? Do you want to talk about what happened, or should we change the subject?” He now recalled their conversation earlier in the week. This woman could talk.

  Cole was a talker himself. It made the newspaper game a lot easier for him. His ability to engage total strangers and extract their life story was a gift that he not only was aware of but honed to a fine art. There was something about Kelly Mitchell that put him off his game, though. When she called with the dinner invitation, he felt as though he was running to keep up with her. She always seemed to be thinking two sentences ahead in the conversation, like in a chess game. Cole smiled and took a deep breath.

  “I un
derstand you live on a boat,” he began.

  “Well, not exactly. It’s a house, really. They built the house on pontoons.”

  “But you’re afloat?”

  “Yes, but I can’t sail off into the sunset. The pontoons are actually Styrofoam. Huge pieces encased in cement. Then the foundation is built on that. Just like a land house except it floats. You’ve got to come see it. There are about 400 of us. All kinds of interesting people around me—artists, poets, even a couple of musicians.”

  “Sounds like a floating commune.” The thought of communes and the ’60s wasn’t an image Cole wanted in his mind right now.

  “Sometimes it feels like that. It’s nice, though, because we all look out for each other. Some of the guys are handy, and they’re always willing to fix things. That’s the one drawback to living on the water. It eventually destroys everything. You would be amazed how much a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies is worth when a sheet of decking needs replacing. I prefer chocolate chip myself, but the granola boys are more conscientious, I even make them cookies with honey instead of sugar. The big phonies. They eat organic food then drink like fish at sundown. What about you? Are you a raisin or chip man?”

  “Definitely a chocolate chip man, but truth be told, I’m partial to brownies.”

  “Walnuts or chocolate chips?”

  “Now you’re talkin’ real brownies! Mine are usually from a Duncan Hines box.” Cole paused. “Funny, you know most bakeries don’t make brownies anymore. When they do, they’re these monster things that look like smashed cake.”

  There was a silence on the line. Cole felt uncomfortable at first but then he felt a calm connection in the silence. Even though they were a bridge apart, he felt he was just sitting with an old friend. He heard her clear her throat and swallow. On the other end of the phone, Kelly smiled and drew circles on the top of her kitchen table. She finally broke the silence.

  “So, how did you get a name like ‘Cole’? You’re the only Cole I’ve ever met.”

  “My father’s family was from Oklahoma. Years ago, so the family legend goes, my great-grandparents were out of money, food, and about to lose their farm. Crops failed, and a tornado blew away the barn and most of the animals. It seems this group of riders came through and asked for food and shelter. It was the dark of the moon, and they couldn’t see that the farm was a wreck. My great-grandfather told them their situation, and the leader of the bunch asked if he could have something to drink. Once inside, the guy realized just what bad shape they were in. My grandfather was about nine at the time, skin and bones; he asked the man if they had anything the family could eat.

  The stranger said they were out of food, too, but had something in his saddlebag that might help them get food in the morning. He took my grandfather outside and gave him a bag of quarters.

  ‘Take this, young fella, and don’t spend it all in one place. Tell your folks to go easy on these, and they should last a good long while.’ With that, the stranger mounted his horse and began to ride away.

  ‘What’s your name?’ my grandfather called from behind him.

  ‘Younger! Cole Younger!’ the man shouted back. So, to securely anchor me to my family mythology, my parents named me ‘Cole.’”

  “I love it.” Kelly chuckled.

  “Thing is, when this incident supposedly occurred, Cole Younger was serving a life sentence in a Minnesota prison. What makes the whole thing really suspect is that the Younger Gang was never known to operate in the Indian Territories. It’s a good story, though.”

  “It’s a great story. Way better than mine.”

  “‘Kelly’ isn’t an odd name.”

  “No, but the way I got it is. My mother saw High Noon on her first date with my dad and thought that Grace Kelly was the most beautiful, gracious woman she had ever seen. She said, ‘If I ever have a daughter, I’m going to name her after Grace Kelly.’ When Grace Kelly married Prince Rainier, my fate was sealed.”

  “So, you’re Grace Kelly Mitchell.”

  “I wish! My father had an old maid aunt named Grace who was a real witch and always kept the family in turmoil, so Mom named me ‘Kelly.’ I don’t usually tell people the story. I like them to think my mom was just ahead of her time.”

  Both laughed but were interrupted by the sound of the call-waiting signal on Cole’s line.

  “Hold on a second,” Cole said, disappointed by the interruption. “Hello?”

  “Cole, Carter. We’re scheduling a press conference at 3 o’clock.”

  “Hold on. I have someone on the other line.” He pressed the hook briefly. “Kelly? It’s the FBI, something about a press conference. I hate to cut you off—”

  “No problem. Feds have the right of way. Go for a walk, Cole, it’s a great stress release. I really enjoyed chatting. Bye.”

  Cole didn’t want their talk to end; it took him away from bombs, bombers, the FBI and his having killed Reed. He pressed the hook again. “Carter? I’m back.”

  “Three o’clock on the steps of the Federal Building. You don’t have to speak unless you wish. We just want a solid front to present to the world. Now listen, Cole, this is the line we’re taking: The suitcase was full of C-4 explosives stolen from the armory at Fort Benning. Jason Reed was wanted by the FBI for violation of arms and explosives theft and transport. There is to be no mention—now or ever—about the threat of nuclear explosives, his link to international terrorism, or anything beyond the published manifesto. Jason Reed was a wacko loner who decided he was the savior of the world, and acts of violence and threats got his manifesto published in the Chronicle. When he was ignored by the world, he decided he was going to blow up San Francisco.” Carter Washington dropped his FBI voice. “Before you say anything, this is a national security issue, and my informing you puts you in the loop. Any violation would bring serious consequences. Clear? I know it goes against every grain of your newspaper hide, but that’s how it’s come down from on high.”

  “What if I don’t go?”

  “I’ll understand, but I would be very disappointed personally. I would count it a favor if you showed up.” Carter’s voice carried a note of concern.

  “All right, just checking.”

  “What about the bomb? What do we know? Anything?”

  “Not much yet. I have been promised word before 3. I do have this: Reed’s fingerprints have been linked to 31 federal crimes and at least a dozen unsolved murders in five states—and they’re just getting started. He was a bad boy, this one.”

  “What about me, Carter?” Cole tried to sound calmer than he was.

  “How do you mean?”

  “The guy’s dead. I killed him. What happens?” Cole was surprised at his panicked tone. He closed his eyes and tried to relax.

  “Short of a medal, you get a hero’s treatment. Self-defense, citizen warrior, protector of the city, vermin exterminator—whatever you want to call it, you did a great service to the city and to the nation. This thing could have made September 11th look like a blip on the radar. You saved thousands of lives, my friend. You should feel no guilt at your actions. You did what we all hope we can do when the time comes: think on your feet and take decisive action.”

  “You make it sound like I took out the trash or shot a mad dog, Carter, this was a human being, and I killed him. It’s not that easy, is it?” Cole hoped for a shred of something that Carter could offer that would relieve his guilt.

  “In the end, it comes down to you or him. I, for one, am happy that you’re talking to me on the phone, you’ll go to work tomorrow, you’ll play with your little granddaughter, and hopefully be around for a long, long time. Nobody likes killing, but sometimes it’s for the good of the community, society, or just self-preservation.”

  “Have you ever….” Cole paused.

  “Twice.” Carter took a deep, audible breath. “Once to protect my partner. The other was, well, a raid that went terribly wrong. Three agents were killed, and I was next. I fired and the bullet went right through
the perp and into an agent. Phillip Edward Pennimen, 37 years old, five-year veteran of the Bureau, wife, three kids, loved hiking in the Vermont woods. Friendly fire, they called it. The perp lived. It’s hard. It happens. You get over it. It takes time, Cole. If you need help, you know, professionally, call me; we’ll take care of everything.”

  “Thank you, Carter. Three o’clock, huh?”

  “Park in the underground lot. Your name’s on the list.”

  “All right, I’ll be there.” Cole knew he needed to be there, and there was the sound of determination, not frailty, in his voice.

  “And Cole?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I have 20-year veterans who couldn’t have done what you did. You ever want to give up that typewriter for a real job, you let me know.”

  “You’ll be the first, Washington, you’ll be the first.”

  “See you at 3.” Carter Washington hung up.

  Cole ran his hands over his face. With his eyes closed, he saw Sarah Spiegelman’s face, but the voice he heard was Kelly Mitchell’s.

  * * * * *

  At 2:45, Cole pulled into the underground parking garage between Larkin and Polk. As he made his way toward the United Nations Plaza, a huge mural of the word TRUTH was all he could see. It was emblazoned across the wall of the Odd Fellows Building. He spent his life fighting for truth, justice, and the American way—just like Superman. With each step he took in the bright afternoon sun, he realized he was about to participate in a lie. Not just a polite little white lie to save someone’s feelings but a big fat ugly cover-your-ass government lie. Was this really the American way? Couldn’t we take the truth anymore? He walked on.

  Carter Washington was standing in a group of men in dark suits, white shirts, dark ties, and aviator sunglasses at the top of the steps in front of the Federal Building. Washington was the only one not wearing sunglasses, and he was the only one who was black. His face showed recognition as he spotted Cole making his way up the steps. With a sideways jerk of his head, he signaled Cole off to the left of the group.