[Cole Sage 03.0] Helix of Cole

by Micheal Maxwell

  “See? Now take off your helmet,” Curtis demanded.

  “Please, don’t hurt me, please, God please, please I don’t want to—” Kyle sputtered as he fumbled to undo the straps on his helmet.

  As the helmet cleared the top of his head, Curtis raised the gun again and fired. “Damn, missed.”

  Kyle frantically tried to push his dead friend’s motorcycle off his leg.

  Curtis fired again, hitting Kyle in the side of the neck. He fired once more, and the bullet hit Kyle in the mouth, blowing his front teeth out the massive wound in the back of his head.

  “Okay, that’s done,” Curtis said, as though he’d just finished washing the dishes.

  He tossed the newspaper down on the lawn chair and the pistol on top of it. Curtis tilted his head to the right and sized up the carnage in front of him. He walked up to Daniel’s body, sprawled face up in the dirt. The dust already absorbed the crimson puddle around his head. Curtis squatted next to the body and began searching the pockets of Daniel’s jeans. He pulled the front pockets wrong side out. A small folded wad of bills was Curtis’s first item of interest. There were 30 dollars in bills and 87 cents in change.

  “What you lookin’ at?” Curtis said to the lifeless form as he rolled it over.

  Curtis removed a wallet from the right back pocket and a round tin of Rooster snuff from the left. He popped the lid from the snuff and sniffed at it.

  “That’s some nasty shit, Daniel.” He tossed the tin away and looked at the lid. “‘Lasts long,’ huh? Guess it lasted longer than you.” Curtis laughed at his joke.

  Flipping open the wallet, he found another $300 in $20 bills. Curtis pulled a driver’s license, Visa card, and Social Security card out of the plastic picture holder. He looked for a long time at a picture of a plain-looking girl in what must have been a high school graduation picture. Curtis gently pulled it from the plastic sleeve and tore it in two. Behind the picture was a lock of hair. He held the small curl between his fingers and twisted it gently, letting the hot wind blow it away strand by strand.

  “I did you a favor, kid. She’s ugly.”

  Curtis shoved the wallet back into Daniel’s pocket. He stood for a moment looking down at the tall lanky form laying in the hot rocky soil. Curtis decided the dead man’s clothes were too big and shifted his attention to Kyle. Kyle only had four $1 bills and a fistful of pennies in his front pockets. Starting to roll him over, Curtis realized that they were nearly the same size. He unbuckled Kyle’s belt and yanked it through the loops of the dead man’s jeans, draping it around his neck.

  “Had to bleed on the shirt, didn’t ya,” Curtis said in disgust. “Nice tennies, though.”

  Curtis moved to Kyle’s feet and pulled off the new-looking white leather shoes. He smiled when he saw the 9 1/2 stamped on the tongue and tossed the shoes toward the trailer door. Curtis removed Kyle’s wallet and found $580, BP, Chevron and Shell gas cards, and a MasterCard. In the compartment with the money was a MasterCard receipt for the Mac Johnson Memorial State Park campsite, complete with signature and space number.

  “Good boy. Always keep your receipts!”

  Curtis picked up the helmet lying not far from the body and tried it on. It was a bit loose but would do. He took off the helmet, put the goggles inside it, and tossed it toward the trailer. Curtis surveyed the scene, quickly bent down and unzipped Kyle’s jeans. He moved to Kyle’s feet and pulled the jeans off, then the socks.

  “Nice clean socks. That’s important. You never know when you leave the house what might happen,” Curtis said as he rolled the jeans and socks up in a bundle.

  Curtis took Kyle’s ATV and pushed it around to the backside of the trailer. Moving quickly and with definite purpose, Curtis took Kyle under the arms and dragged him into the trailer. Inside, he shoved and twisted the body until he had it sitting upright at the small table at the end of the trailer. He leaned Kyle’s head against the window and used the lacy white curtains to tie a bow under his chin. Curtis folded the dead man’s hands one atop the other on the table.

  Daniel’s body was much heavier and more difficult to get inside. Curtis propped the body in the wooden chair across the table from Kyle and used Daniel’s belt to strap him securely to the chair. Glancing around the small trailer, his eyes landed on a tube of red lipstick in a small basket on the counter below an oval mirror. He took the lid off, gave the case a twist, and smiled. Curtis turned his head lightly to the right and admired his arrangement of the bodies at the table. He slowly approached the small young man whose head he secured with the curtains. Holding Kyle’s chin, he used the lipstick to write EARTH RAPER on his forehead. He made a capital “A” in a circle—the anarchy sign—on the top of Daniel’s helmet, then shoved the lipstick tube into his hollow eye socket.

  Back outside, Curtis took the shovel from the graves of the old man and woman who owned the trailer and threw several shovels full of dirt on top of the blood soaked earth. Satisfied with his clean-up of the yard, he took the Clorox bottle and took a long pull, finishing off the warm contents. He carried the jug upside down, shaking it several times as he rounded the trailer to where the ATV was.

  Curtis examined the vehicle until he found the fuel line. With a quick tug, he pulled the hose loose and stuck it in the Clorox jug. He filled the jug and then stuffed the fuel line up between two wires to keep it from draining out on the ground. He stood and removed his black handled Gator knife from his pocket and flicked it open. With a stab, yank, and twist, he systematically flattened all four tires, then flipped the vehicle on its back. Glancing around, he found a stack of two-by-sixes about three feet long wired to the underside of the trailer. The old people must have used them to level the trailer. He took two of the boards and created a ramp using the groove in the right back wheel of the ATV.

  The Clorox jug gurgled, and gas splashed as it ran down the side of the car as Curtis tried to pour it into the gas tank. He figured he spilled at least a fourth of the gas, but what got in the tank would be more than enough for what he was going to do. It took a lot of pumping but the car started. Curtis revved the engine a couple of times, then pulled around to the backside of the trailer. He lined the right wheels of the car up with the makeshift ramp on the ATV. Backing up about 50 feet, he floored the accelerator, ran up the ramp and slammed down, crushing the little ATV under the weight of the car. Curtis killed the engine and got out of the car.

  He walked around the car, examining the view. Then he turned and half jogged about 100 yards toward the road. Not bad, he thought. From his vantage point, you could barely tell the car sat atop a crushed vehicle. If anyone were to drive by, it would look like a couple of old cars parked next to a trailer. He returned to the trailer, gathered what few belongings he carried with him, and tossed them in the heavy wire mesh basket on the back of Daniel’s ATV. Kyle’s helmet still wet with sweat was a good fit. Curtis tightened the band on the goggles and started the engine.

  Within moments, he was racing across the desert toward Red Rock Canyon and the Mac Johnson campgrounds beyond. The ATV had a lot of power, and Curtis was like a kid on a new bike as he jumped and swerved his way through the rock formations, sagebrush, and Joshua trees. Twice he stopped on a ridge to get his bearings and see if he could spot any roadblocks or National Guard trucks. Only once, when he crossed the Blue Diamond Road, did he see any law enforcement of any kind. A quarter mile north of where he crossed, a highway patrol car was parked behind a billboard waiting for some unsuspecting tourist to speed by.

  Curtis was careful to obey the frequently posted speed limits inside the park. The ranger at the gate gave a half-hearted return wave when Curtis rolled slowly past. The receipt in Daniel’s wallet for Space 132-A saved a lot of time and kept Curtis from having to speak to the ranger. The pair was right. There were few spaces filled in the new campground, and 132-A was tucked back in the corner near a large grey brick shower building.

  Parked in the space next to a large tent sat a late model Dodge 1500 pic
kup truck. Curtis parked the ATV next to its trailer and cut the engine, leaving the helmet on until he was sure that the space across the road was deserted. He quickly unzipped the tent and went through the bags. He took a couple of what he decided were Daniel’s T-shirts and stuffed them in Kyle’s bag without looking in it. He rolled up the two sleeping bags and within three minutes, they were stowed in the back of the truck along with two ice chests full of food, beer, and soda.

  Curtis tossed the helmet and goggles into the tent and got in the truck. In keeping with the silver-and-black color scheme of the truck, the windows were all blacked out except for the front windshield. The strong Hemi engine purred like a giant cat as Curtis sat idling while he went over the instrument panel and figured out the air conditioner controls. He put the truck into drive and rolled out through the gate and onto Highway 159.

  The air conditioner blasted ice-cold air into the cab, and Curtis pushed the power button on the stereo. The thunderous bass blasted at a painful volume. Curtis bolted from his relaxed hand on the armrest slump to a straight-up startled position like a bomb went off in the cab. He pushed the eject button on the face of the CD player. The silver disc gracefully floated out. Curtis pulled it out and read the label.

  “Thug Life? What kind of shit is this?” Curtis said, pushing the electric window button. With a flick of the wrist he sent the disc flying out the window.

  Fumbling with the various buttons on the sound system, he finally found the FM button. Through a process of elimination, he finally stopped when he heard the announcer say, “You’re on 97.1 The Point, Las Vegas’ home of Classic Rock.”

  The familiar opening riff of Layla filled the cab. Curtis reached over and turned the volume up to nearly where Tupac blasted earlier. A wide smile crossed his face as he heard Eric Clapton sing, “Layla, you got me on my knees.” Curtis set the cruise control and headed south and west for the California border.

  Curtis knew he could no longer help others in their quest for justice, equality, and restoring sanity to a world gone mad. He would work alone to bring down the destructive evil that was killing the Mother of us all. The earth must be saved. He knew what he had to do now. Mel Lyman sang it. Curtis learned it. He reached over, turned off the radio, and began to sing softly.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Higher, Grampa, higher!” Jenny squealed with delight as Cole pushed the swing.

  The sweet smell of the freshly mowed lawns of Cromwell Park came in wafts as the noisy tractor mower made wide loops around the thick emerald grass. It was a perfect day for the proud grandfather to take his flaxen-haired granddaughter to the park. Huge billowing clouds occasionally blocked the sun’s warm rays and passed shadows over the park. New moms with strollers paraded like peacocks along the rolling mini-hills that dipped and rose across the grounds. A small army of kids under four feet jumped, climbed, and ran through the sand-filled play area of brightly painted climbing toys, swings, and slides that emptied onto blue rubbery surfaces guaranteed not to bruise or break bones.

  Not like when I was a kid, Cole thought. If you fell off the Jungle Gym from the top rung, you’d probably spend the rest of the summer in a plaster cast covered with signatures. Cole enjoyed the feeling of the spongy blue material under his feet. Nice touch. Even the toddlers would fall and giggle, pick themselves up, and be off to the next discovery.

  Erin packed a picnic basket, and Cole was getting stomach rumbles that reminded him he skipped his breakfast to get a few things finished before his trip to Washington. For once, he outsmarted his juice-box packing daughter and brought a small ice chest with two Diet Cokes securely packed in ice.

  “Are you about ready for our picnic?” Cole said, figuring 45 minutes of swings and slides would make anybody hungry, even a four-year-old.

  “More swing, please!” came the delighted cry as the swing arched upward.

  “Okay.” Cole lifted the swing and gave it another push forward.

  Two pushes later, Jenny called out, “Hey, Grampa, are you hungry like me?”

  “Yeah, let’s go eat!”

  Under the shade of a 100-year-old sycamore tree, Cole spread the brightly colored patchwork quilt he kept in the trunk of his car for just such occasions. Jenny peeked into the wicker basket and came out with a bag of cheese puffs and a bunch of grapes. Cole popped the lid and found what he was looking for, a roast beef on whole wheat, lots of mayo, a swipe of dark mustard, and alfalfa sprouts.

  “Your sam’ich has got grass in it!” Jenny giggled.

  “And yours has got purple stuff!” Cole said, handing Jenny her peanut butter and grape jelly, no crust, cut diagonally.

  “Your mom makes the best picnics,” Cole mumbled as he pushed dangling strands of sprouts into his mouth. “How are the cheese puffs?”

  “Here, have some,” Jenny offered.

  Inside the basket were napkins and wet wipes, bananas and carrot sticks, and enough crackers and chips for a Tuesday night poker session. Cole smiled at the thought of his daughter preparing the basket for his outing with Jenny. Erin was a wonderful mother and seemed to think of everything, a trait Cole liked to think she got from Ellie. It was almost two years since Ellie died, and the sharp pain of her loss had been reduced to an occasional dull ache in the void that Erin and Jenny filled with love.

  Almost like clockwork in the middle of lunch, Jenny announced she needed the bathroom. With great trepidation, Cole took her to the concrete block restroom building. He raised his voice to an artificial level as they hop scotched the muddy puddles around the building as a warning to anyone who might be inside that a man with a female child was approaching.

  “Anybody in here?” Cole called into the women’s restroom door. There was no response so he called even louder, “Coming in! Okay, sweetie, all clear.”

  Jenny shot past him and into the first stall. Cole positioned himself in the doorway, arms crossed and daring even the demons of hell to try to get past him.

  “All done.” Jenny came across the wet floor, still pulling up her underwear and little navy blue shorts. “I’ll wash my hands,” she said, reaching for the grimy faucets.

  “No!” Cole said a little too sharply. “We’ve got wipes. Those things are nasty.”

  Back at the blanket, Jenny’s enthusiasm for eating waned, and she rubbed her eyes several times. Cole put the remnants of their lunch in the basket, gathering the empty sandwich bags and juice box. He stood to find a garbage can.

  “Hey, while I get rid of this stuff, why don’t you lay back and see how many animal shapes you can find in the clouds?”

  “Okay, I’ll find more than you!”

  Cole made his way the 30 feet or so to the trash and back to find Jenny, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, sound asleep. Cole quietly removed the latest copy of Time from the basket and sat down on the deep green bench 10 feet from where Jenny slumbered peacefully. As he scanned the Table of Contents, he was distracted by the shuffling of feet on the sidewalk to his right. Huffing and waddling at a snail’s pace, a very pregnant woman came shuffling toward him, her belly arriving well before the rest of her. Her hair was shoulder length and limp. What was certainly a pretty face before was now red, splotches obscuring the fleshy pounds of pregnancy.

  “Can I share your bench?”

  “Absolutely.” Cole gestured for her to take a seat.

  “The doctor says I have to walk more. So, twice a day, I try to make it around the path here.”

  “How much longer have you got?” Cole inquired.

  “Six weeks.”

  Cole glanced over at the woman beside him in disbelief. She was enormous and looked like she was about to pop. Her face was a deep red and moist with sweat.

  “You look like you could use something to drink. I have an extra Diet Coke.” Cole pointed at his little ice chest.

  “Could I have a handful of ice instead? I feel like I’m roasting.”

  Cole picked up the ice chest and sat it between them on the bench.

  “I’
m Mindy,” the young woman said as she reached into the ice chest.

  “Cole.”

  Mindy took a large handful of ice, popped a cube in her mouth, and held the rest against the back of her neck.

  “Are you going to be okay?” Cole asked with genuine concern.

  “Oh, yeah. I do this all the time.” Mindy’s voice cracked, and she began to cry. “Damn hormones. My husband thinks I’m nuts, my doctor thinks I ignore his advice, and my mother thinks I’m a crybaby. I’m so sick of it all.”

  “Good thing you got the park, then. Nice place to get away for a little while.”

  “Your daughter is so pretty,” Mindy said, regaining her composure.

  “Granddaughter, actually. She’s a cutie all right.”

  “Aren’t you afraid for her?”

  “How do you mean?” Cole wasn’t sure if Mindy was going to start crying again or not.

  “I sometimes think that Curt and I have made a mistake bringing a child into this world.” Mindy watched Cole’s face for a reaction.

  “How do you mean?”

  “With all the wars and drugs and gangs and children disappearing, sometimes I think that we have made a big mistake.”

  “You know, my parents must have thought the same thing after World War II, but I was still born in the middle of the Korean War. I know what you mean, but I think every generation probably feels the same way.”

  “It just seems everybody hates everybody. Like those guys who crashed into the World Trade Center. Why did they have to do that? Do you think they will ever bomb San Francisco? I always think of September 11 every time I go into the city. I wish it was like when I was a kid.” Mindy sighed.

  “Yeah, all we had then was the Ayatollah Khomeini, Khadafy, a war in Bosnia, Timothy McVey, Ted Bundy, and don’t forget disco!” Cole gave a slight chuckle. “It’s different, but really, it’s all the same.”

  “It just seems like we are always on the edge of the next catastrophe, though. Every week there’s a new crisis.” Mindy sighed.