Cole Fire, page 10
K
The fish seemed to know what he was there for. As the flaky fish food hit the top of the water, they surged upward like piranhas after a fat pig.
“You’re a hungry bunch.”
A pen was sitting on the counter next to the yellow container of fish food. Cole picked up the container, knocking the pen off the counter. Without thinking he bent and picked up the pen. As he came back up, a sharp pain shot across the back of his head, and a wave of nausea swept over him. He turned and faced the sink, sure that he would vomit.
For the first time, Cole was seriously concerned with his injury. He had been knocked out by a blow to the head before, in a car crash, from a fall from a ladder, and when he was roughed up while a prisoner in Cambodia. This time it was different.
The fish will have to wait, Cole thought as he made his way across the room to the couch. With a swipe of his arm he cleared the couch of all the pillows. He slowly lowered himself onto the couch and lay on his right side. He pulled up his knees and closed his eyes. Within moments he fell into a deep concussive sleep.
Don Wiltz stood for a long while at the end of the pier, watching the houseboat Cole Sage entered. Satisfied he was in for the evening, Wiltz returned to his car, popped the trunk, and stood surveying the parking lot at the pier. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Wiltz removed the gas can and a box of wooden matches. He looked around one more time for signs of life, nothing. Wiltz left the trunk open, and with swift purposeful movement made his way back to the pier and the houseboat he believed belonged to Cole Sage.
“This rids us of one more problem.” Charlie spoke for the first time since Wiltz arrived at the harbor.
“He has no intention of writing our story. His obituary will be the story. If they can connect the dots,” Wiltz replied.
“All this wood will make a great fire. Too bad the boats don’t belong to the enemy.” Charlie paused. “Walk close to the edge, less creaking.”
“Finally, you have advice worth heeding. Now shut up.”
Wiltz removed the cap from the gas can and tossed it into the water. Quietly, carefully and methodically he poured gasoline down the wall from about four feet off the deck. As he came to the corner he slowly moved to the sliding glass door. Glancing around the room, he didn’t see Cole sleeping on the couch at first. On his second pass, he spotted Cole’s white tennis shoes. Without hesitating, he crossed the back deck to the stairs. He poured gas down a pontoon vent and a bit into the gap in the sliding door to Kelly’s bedroom.
Concerned with the amount of gas in the can, Wiltz left the top deck and poured gas down the deck on the side of the houseboat closest to the neighbor. Rounding the corner to the front of the houseboat, he poured a stream up the gangplank to the pier. There was still an inch or two in the gas can.
Wiltz crouched down and took several matches from the box. Striking three at once, he watched the trail of flame snake its way down the gangplank and ignite the walls and deck. Within moments the flames covering the walls were licking the upper deck.
Trying to remain calm and walk quickly, but not excitedly, Wiltz started back to his car. As he approached Cole’s car he noticed the front passenger window was down. He walked to the window, poured the remaining gas in the front seat, then tossed the can into the back seat. It only took one match to set the interior of the car ablaze.
As he started his car, Wiltz saw a woman walking a dog, her back to him. He backed out of the parking place and looked back at the houseboat. There was no smoke. A good hot fire, he thought as he pulled away. A minute later he was just another car heading for the Golden Gate Bridge.
Flames are a thing of beauty; the golds, oranges, and cleansing whiteness are one of nature’s mysteries. Yet within that beauty lays the power to heat, cook, help mold, and cleanse. That same beauty also holds the power to char, destroy, and kill.
* * *
Kelly Mitchell had created a space of beauty. Her life after the death of her husband was reshaped, revived, and began again. Her floating home was as great a departure from the large, landlocked suburban home that she could find. She buried the memories, furniture, and contents with her husband. The downsizing included a purging that helped in the healing and freed her of material encumbrances. She found freedom and energy in living on the water. Buying things for her new home released a creative and surprisingly different side of her taste than she knew existed.
Now as her new love slept on her couch, the walls burned. The drapes and bedding were aflame. The fire rolled across the floor and into the closet. Paint began to blister and run in the heat, then ignite into smoking distorted versions of themselves. Smoke swirled and floated across the floor and down the stairs from the bedroom.
The poisonous smoke and gases rose higher and higher from the floor. The couch was lost in the smoke. As the walls burned through and the fire raged unhindered, the inhalation of carbon monoxide, combined with Cole’s deep sleep, lulled him into an oxygen-deprived state of unconsciousness.
As the flames and smoke rose into the azure blue Sausalito sky, Cole Sage sank further and further into the hereafter.
SEVEN
Will Rooney, owner of the houseboat two berths down from Kelly Mitchell’s, awoke from a nap on his rooftop deck to the smell of acrid smoke. Then he saw the orange tips of flames.
“Kelly!” Rooney yelled, repeatedly beating on the front door. “Kelly, are you in there?”
Rooney stepped back, then rammed the door with his shoulder. The front door of the houseboat burst open onto an inferno of smoke and fire. Rooney frantically scanned the room, and realized he couldn’t get far inside.
His attempt to get to the back of the house was futile; the flames on the outer wall completely ignited the walkway along the right side. Without hesitating he jumped into the water and swam to the back deck. The roof above the rear deck showed evidence of the fire above. Through the glass slider he saw Cole, lying on the sofa, his back to the glass door.
Rooney picked up a heavy flower pot on the deck and hurled it through the sliding glass door. The heat burst through the door with such a furious blast his clothing steamed. He covered his face with his arm and managed to cross the few feet to the couch and Cole.
Fearing the worst, Rooney felt for a pulse. It was weak but steady.
“Hey, wake up, fella! We gotta get you out of here!” Rooney’s attempt to wake Cole was pointless—there just wasn’t time.
He grabbed Cole under his arms and dragged him toward the door as a section of the ceiling collapsed near the front of the house. Outside, the deck was aflame from debris falling from above. In the distance Rooney heard the sound of approaching sirens. He couldn’t wait. There was nowhere to go but into the water. Will rolled Cole off the end of the deck into the water and quickly lowered himself in beside him.
The closest path to safety was the pontoon of the houseboat next door. Rooney grasped the collar of the motionless Cole and began kicking and paddling with his free arm, to get them the few yards to safety. They reached the pontoon at the same time the firetrucks and screaming sirens came to a stop in front of Kelly’s collapsing home.
Will could feel his strength fading as he treaded water and held tight to Cole. The strenuous rescue was proving to be a lot for the seventy-six-year-old.
It took only minutes for firefighters to begin spraying down the neighboring houseboat, as they began making every effort to keep the fire from destroying more property. To their amazement they spotted Rooney holding onto Cole and clinging to the side of the pontoon.
The fire and rescue team quickly moved the soaking pair to safety. Rooney watched, wrapped in a blanket, as the paramedics started trying to revive Cole. They determined he was suffering from severe smoke inhalation. Cole was wrapped tightly in a foil blanket; an oxygen mask covered his face as they loaded him into a waiting ambulance.
Ben Mitchell, Cole’s son-in-law, was the first family member to arrive at the hospital. He came straight from USF Children’s Hospital and was warmly greeted by the doctors attending Cole. Erin arrived a half-hour later with Jenny.
“It seems he has a pretty nasty concussion,” the doctor informed Ben. “There are three areas of swelling and abrasion, two on the sides and a large hematoma on the top of his head. The strange thing is he has no other injuries or bruising. It’s as if somebody knocked him around pretty good. Could be the arsonist knocked him out before he set the fire.”
“Arsonist?” Ben couldn’t help showing his surprise.
“Didn’t they tell you? The houseboat he was in was torched. He’s one lucky guy. An old fellow was napping a couple houseboats down and smelled the smoke.”
“My mother owns a houseboat at Waldo Point.”
“The guys who brought him in didn’t say where. Here’s what we got. We are treating your father-in-law for the smoke inhalation first. We have him on heavy oxygen. We’re waiting for the lab work to see his carbon monoxide levels. His color is pretty good, so I don’t think we need a bronchoscopy. I am concerned with those head injuries, however. You know anything about any recent injuries or accident?”
“Nothing I know of. Has he woken up at all?”
“Just for a bit when we were moving him from the gurney. He said something about fish. Kind of funny, he kept mumbling, “Don’t forget the fish.
“How soon can we see him?” Ben asked.
“You have free rein around here, Doctor. Anyone else should wait an hour or so until the nurses get him settled.” The doctor extended his hand, “Welcome to Marin General.”
Jenny sat quietly playing a game on her iPad when Ben entered the waiting room. Erin was standing looking out the window.
“How is he?” Erin said, her voice cracking with emotion.
“He has smoke inhalation, is on oxygen, and is resting comfortably. He hasn’t woken up yet. They’re moving him to a room, and you can see him in about an hour.” Ben smiled reassuringly and reached both arms outstretched to Erin.
“Daddy, I prayed for Grandpa, so don’t worry, he’ll be OK.” Jenny’s childlike faith was reassuring to her parents.
“Yes, he wil,l sweetie,” Erin replied, as Jenny returned to her game.
“Has your dad said anything about getting hit in the head or having an accident or anything?” Ben asked softly, not wanting Jenny to hear.
“No, why?”
“It may be nothing, but the attending physician said he had three pretty good signs of head trauma. His words, not mine,” he said. “Looks like he’s been knocked around.”
“Where was he? What happened?”
“The fire was at Mom’s.”
“Have you called her?” Erin whispered.
“Yes, a few minutes ago. She’s on her way back.”
“What did she say?”
“All she cared about was your dad. ‘Everything else is just stuff,’ you know how she is,” Ben tried to smile as he reassured Erin. “The house is a total loss, and your dad will be ok. That’s all that matters.”
“Can I see him?”
“I’m on my way in to see him. He should be awake in a bit. He will have a doozy of a headache.”
“Doozy? Is that a medical term, Doctor Mitchell?” Erin smiled.
“It is a relieved son-in-law’s prognosis for his wonderful wife.” Ben kissed Erin on the cheek. “He’ll be fine, Nurse Mitchell, truly,” Ben whispered before pulling away.
Ben stood for a long moment at the door of Cole’s room. It was odd to see the man he always saw as invincible in a hospital bed with IVs and oxygen.
“Hey, buddy. What brings you here?” Cole rasped, one eye still closed.
Ben crossed the room to the side of the bed and patted Cole on the shoulder. “You feel like talking?”
“That’s what the cop said and I pretended to go back to sleep.”
“How are you feeling?”
“If that’s a doctor question, not-so hot. If it’s a son-in-law question that will get back to my daughter, fit as a fiddle.”
“What’s up with these knots on your head?” Ben asked.
Cole explained the attack on the street. He left out some of the details, but gave Ben enough of the story so he understood the attack was a serious warning.
“Why were you at mom’s?”
“Those stupid fish she’s babysitting. They’re fried fish now. Man, is your mom going to be furious.” Cole paused. “What about the houseboat?”
“Gone,” Ben replied sadly.
“He had to have followed me from the paper. How did I get here? All I remember is being in the water. Then the ambulance.”
“They tell me the neighbor smelled smoke and got you out.” Ben shrugged.
“Erin is here. You feel like company?”
“Yes, you think I can make it down to the waiting room?” Cole coughed violently.
“There you go!” Ben encouraged. “Don’t be afraid to get the stuff up.”
“I feel like I smoked a carton of Camels.”
“Probably close. Since it appears you will not expire in the near future, I think I will get back to work. I’ll check back on you later this evening.”
“Tell Erin I would love to see her.”
“They said an hour, so be patient.” Ben replied.
“I am a patient.”
“You’re fine.” Ben laughed as he waved from the door.
* * *
Grinds & Brews was nearly empty. A couple huddled in the corner furthest from the door and whisper-screamed at each other. To Hanna’s amusement, they thought no one could hear her anger at his slovenly ways, and his regret at co-signing a lease. The barista busied herself wiping down all the chrome and copper surfaces.
Hanna took a seat against the wall. She made up a tale of a doctor appointment to get to the coffee shop by nine o’clock. She called to check on Cole and he answered the phone. Grumpy and a bit grouchy, but he said he was more damaged by his hospital stay than the fire. From her vantage point she could see the windows on either side of the door. She would be able to spot Skeeter long before he saw her.
She checked and re-checked her pen, digital recorder, and lipstick in her compact mirror. Her butterflies had all flown. Her worry about what Cole would do or think about her masquerade as a reporter was long pushed aside. She was in deep and there was no turning back now. Her only concern would be Skeeter Evans’s reaction to her sitting at the table instead of Cole.
When Hanna glanced up from her short list of questions she saw a man staring at her though the window. He looked nothing like what she envisioned on the phone. His eyes were dull, unfeeling, and devoid of emotion. He stared expressionless into the coffee shop. It had to be him, Hanna thought.
The man in the window turned and began to walk away. Hanna ran to the door, more of a reflex, than an action brought about by reasonable thought.
“Skeeter?” Hanna said, holding the door with her left hand and leaning out onto the sidewalk.
“Yeah?” Skeeter turned to face Hanna.
“I’m Hanna, we spoke on the phone?”
“Yeah.”
“Wouldn’t you like to come in?”
There was no effort on Skeeter Evans’ part trying to hide his disgust or annoyance. He stood for a long moment, not looking at Hanna, hands shoved deep in his pockets, just gazing straight ahead.
“Where’s Sage?”
“Well,” Hanna hesitated, then lifted the newspaper, flashed Skeeter the headline and said, “Hospital.”
“What?”
“How ‘bout I buy you a cup of coffee and explain?” Hanna turned on her halogen smile and motioned for him to “come on in”. He complied.
With a boxer’s dexterity Hanna bobbed and weaved around any detail, or request for details, Skeeter threw at her about Cole’s hospitalization. She was there to interview him, not the other way around. This was her time, and her chance, nothing was going to derail her focus.
“So what happens now?” Hanna began.
“What do you mean?”
“Jesse’s gone. What will you do?”
“We continue to spread the truth of his teachings.”
“Is that possible without Jesse? I mean, he was the message, wasn’t he?”
Skeeter shifted in his chair and it gave a bark from scooting on the tile. He tried to seem relaxed but the rippling of his jaw muscles told an entirely different story. He took a deep breath through his nose and let it out the same way.
“Christianity seems to have done pretty well without their leader.”
“Hmmm. Well, yes, it has,” Hanna conceded. “But the risen-from-the-grave angle is something you don’t have. I mean, where is Jesse?”
For the first time Skeeter bristled visibly. “We don’t need him.”
There it was, there’s nowhere to retreat from that statement. Hanna’s mind raced for the perfect follow-up question. Here was more than she bargained for. If he would just not bolt; she pretended to check her notes.
Before she could formulate her next question, Skeeter continued. “The message, the vision, it was mine. Jesse was the medium, but the movement, the promotion, the program, if you want to call it that, was all my idea.”
“I thought Jesse was ‘God’s other son’ or ‘Jesus for a new generation’ or something. Did I get that wrong?” Hanna would rather bite her tongue out, than be the first one to speak next.
Skeeter stared at Hanna through squinted eyes. This was the new beginning. Without Jesse, he was in charge. He felt a flush of empowerment come over him. The years of guiding, polishing, coercing and playing second fiddle were over.
“Look, you people in the media will never get the big picture. This world is controlled by the spiritual. Controlling or tapping into the spiritual is given to a few vessels; Julius Cesar, Napoleon, Buddha, Muhammad, the Dali Lama, Gandhi, and although you may argue the point, Adolph Hitler. The skeptic will call it charisma, mass hysteria, marketing, or a fad. The truth is they are part of the universal spirit, a very real power, given to a very few. Jesse was a preacher, a communicator. Until he met me, he was talking to a handful of people a week. He was not part of the Power of the Air.” Skeeter leaned forward and said in a softer voice, “I hope you’re getting this down, you’re the first to be given this truth.”
The fish seemed to know what he was there for. As the flaky fish food hit the top of the water, they surged upward like piranhas after a fat pig.
“You’re a hungry bunch.”
A pen was sitting on the counter next to the yellow container of fish food. Cole picked up the container, knocking the pen off the counter. Without thinking he bent and picked up the pen. As he came back up, a sharp pain shot across the back of his head, and a wave of nausea swept over him. He turned and faced the sink, sure that he would vomit.
For the first time, Cole was seriously concerned with his injury. He had been knocked out by a blow to the head before, in a car crash, from a fall from a ladder, and when he was roughed up while a prisoner in Cambodia. This time it was different.
The fish will have to wait, Cole thought as he made his way across the room to the couch. With a swipe of his arm he cleared the couch of all the pillows. He slowly lowered himself onto the couch and lay on his right side. He pulled up his knees and closed his eyes. Within moments he fell into a deep concussive sleep.
Don Wiltz stood for a long while at the end of the pier, watching the houseboat Cole Sage entered. Satisfied he was in for the evening, Wiltz returned to his car, popped the trunk, and stood surveying the parking lot at the pier. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Wiltz removed the gas can and a box of wooden matches. He looked around one more time for signs of life, nothing. Wiltz left the trunk open, and with swift purposeful movement made his way back to the pier and the houseboat he believed belonged to Cole Sage.
“This rids us of one more problem.” Charlie spoke for the first time since Wiltz arrived at the harbor.
“He has no intention of writing our story. His obituary will be the story. If they can connect the dots,” Wiltz replied.
“All this wood will make a great fire. Too bad the boats don’t belong to the enemy.” Charlie paused. “Walk close to the edge, less creaking.”
“Finally, you have advice worth heeding. Now shut up.”
Wiltz removed the cap from the gas can and tossed it into the water. Quietly, carefully and methodically he poured gasoline down the wall from about four feet off the deck. As he came to the corner he slowly moved to the sliding glass door. Glancing around the room, he didn’t see Cole sleeping on the couch at first. On his second pass, he spotted Cole’s white tennis shoes. Without hesitating, he crossed the back deck to the stairs. He poured gas down a pontoon vent and a bit into the gap in the sliding door to Kelly’s bedroom.
Concerned with the amount of gas in the can, Wiltz left the top deck and poured gas down the deck on the side of the houseboat closest to the neighbor. Rounding the corner to the front of the houseboat, he poured a stream up the gangplank to the pier. There was still an inch or two in the gas can.
Wiltz crouched down and took several matches from the box. Striking three at once, he watched the trail of flame snake its way down the gangplank and ignite the walls and deck. Within moments the flames covering the walls were licking the upper deck.
Trying to remain calm and walk quickly, but not excitedly, Wiltz started back to his car. As he approached Cole’s car he noticed the front passenger window was down. He walked to the window, poured the remaining gas in the front seat, then tossed the can into the back seat. It only took one match to set the interior of the car ablaze.
As he started his car, Wiltz saw a woman walking a dog, her back to him. He backed out of the parking place and looked back at the houseboat. There was no smoke. A good hot fire, he thought as he pulled away. A minute later he was just another car heading for the Golden Gate Bridge.
Flames are a thing of beauty; the golds, oranges, and cleansing whiteness are one of nature’s mysteries. Yet within that beauty lays the power to heat, cook, help mold, and cleanse. That same beauty also holds the power to char, destroy, and kill.
* * *
Kelly Mitchell had created a space of beauty. Her life after the death of her husband was reshaped, revived, and began again. Her floating home was as great a departure from the large, landlocked suburban home that she could find. She buried the memories, furniture, and contents with her husband. The downsizing included a purging that helped in the healing and freed her of material encumbrances. She found freedom and energy in living on the water. Buying things for her new home released a creative and surprisingly different side of her taste than she knew existed.
Now as her new love slept on her couch, the walls burned. The drapes and bedding were aflame. The fire rolled across the floor and into the closet. Paint began to blister and run in the heat, then ignite into smoking distorted versions of themselves. Smoke swirled and floated across the floor and down the stairs from the bedroom.
The poisonous smoke and gases rose higher and higher from the floor. The couch was lost in the smoke. As the walls burned through and the fire raged unhindered, the inhalation of carbon monoxide, combined with Cole’s deep sleep, lulled him into an oxygen-deprived state of unconsciousness.
As the flames and smoke rose into the azure blue Sausalito sky, Cole Sage sank further and further into the hereafter.
SEVEN
Will Rooney, owner of the houseboat two berths down from Kelly Mitchell’s, awoke from a nap on his rooftop deck to the smell of acrid smoke. Then he saw the orange tips of flames.
“Kelly!” Rooney yelled, repeatedly beating on the front door. “Kelly, are you in there?”
Rooney stepped back, then rammed the door with his shoulder. The front door of the houseboat burst open onto an inferno of smoke and fire. Rooney frantically scanned the room, and realized he couldn’t get far inside.
His attempt to get to the back of the house was futile; the flames on the outer wall completely ignited the walkway along the right side. Without hesitating he jumped into the water and swam to the back deck. The roof above the rear deck showed evidence of the fire above. Through the glass slider he saw Cole, lying on the sofa, his back to the glass door.
Rooney picked up a heavy flower pot on the deck and hurled it through the sliding glass door. The heat burst through the door with such a furious blast his clothing steamed. He covered his face with his arm and managed to cross the few feet to the couch and Cole.
Fearing the worst, Rooney felt for a pulse. It was weak but steady.
“Hey, wake up, fella! We gotta get you out of here!” Rooney’s attempt to wake Cole was pointless—there just wasn’t time.
He grabbed Cole under his arms and dragged him toward the door as a section of the ceiling collapsed near the front of the house. Outside, the deck was aflame from debris falling from above. In the distance Rooney heard the sound of approaching sirens. He couldn’t wait. There was nowhere to go but into the water. Will rolled Cole off the end of the deck into the water and quickly lowered himself in beside him.
The closest path to safety was the pontoon of the houseboat next door. Rooney grasped the collar of the motionless Cole and began kicking and paddling with his free arm, to get them the few yards to safety. They reached the pontoon at the same time the firetrucks and screaming sirens came to a stop in front of Kelly’s collapsing home.
Will could feel his strength fading as he treaded water and held tight to Cole. The strenuous rescue was proving to be a lot for the seventy-six-year-old.
It took only minutes for firefighters to begin spraying down the neighboring houseboat, as they began making every effort to keep the fire from destroying more property. To their amazement they spotted Rooney holding onto Cole and clinging to the side of the pontoon.
The fire and rescue team quickly moved the soaking pair to safety. Rooney watched, wrapped in a blanket, as the paramedics started trying to revive Cole. They determined he was suffering from severe smoke inhalation. Cole was wrapped tightly in a foil blanket; an oxygen mask covered his face as they loaded him into a waiting ambulance.
Ben Mitchell, Cole’s son-in-law, was the first family member to arrive at the hospital. He came straight from USF Children’s Hospital and was warmly greeted by the doctors attending Cole. Erin arrived a half-hour later with Jenny.
“It seems he has a pretty nasty concussion,” the doctor informed Ben. “There are three areas of swelling and abrasion, two on the sides and a large hematoma on the top of his head. The strange thing is he has no other injuries or bruising. It’s as if somebody knocked him around pretty good. Could be the arsonist knocked him out before he set the fire.”
“Arsonist?” Ben couldn’t help showing his surprise.
“Didn’t they tell you? The houseboat he was in was torched. He’s one lucky guy. An old fellow was napping a couple houseboats down and smelled the smoke.”
“My mother owns a houseboat at Waldo Point.”
“The guys who brought him in didn’t say where. Here’s what we got. We are treating your father-in-law for the smoke inhalation first. We have him on heavy oxygen. We’re waiting for the lab work to see his carbon monoxide levels. His color is pretty good, so I don’t think we need a bronchoscopy. I am concerned with those head injuries, however. You know anything about any recent injuries or accident?”
“Nothing I know of. Has he woken up at all?”
“Just for a bit when we were moving him from the gurney. He said something about fish. Kind of funny, he kept mumbling, “Don’t forget the fish.
“How soon can we see him?” Ben asked.
“You have free rein around here, Doctor. Anyone else should wait an hour or so until the nurses get him settled.” The doctor extended his hand, “Welcome to Marin General.”
Jenny sat quietly playing a game on her iPad when Ben entered the waiting room. Erin was standing looking out the window.
“How is he?” Erin said, her voice cracking with emotion.
“He has smoke inhalation, is on oxygen, and is resting comfortably. He hasn’t woken up yet. They’re moving him to a room, and you can see him in about an hour.” Ben smiled reassuringly and reached both arms outstretched to Erin.
“Daddy, I prayed for Grandpa, so don’t worry, he’ll be OK.” Jenny’s childlike faith was reassuring to her parents.
“Yes, he wil,l sweetie,” Erin replied, as Jenny returned to her game.
“Has your dad said anything about getting hit in the head or having an accident or anything?” Ben asked softly, not wanting Jenny to hear.
“No, why?”
“It may be nothing, but the attending physician said he had three pretty good signs of head trauma. His words, not mine,” he said. “Looks like he’s been knocked around.”
“Where was he? What happened?”
“The fire was at Mom’s.”
“Have you called her?” Erin whispered.
“Yes, a few minutes ago. She’s on her way back.”
“What did she say?”
“All she cared about was your dad. ‘Everything else is just stuff,’ you know how she is,” Ben tried to smile as he reassured Erin. “The house is a total loss, and your dad will be ok. That’s all that matters.”
“Can I see him?”
“I’m on my way in to see him. He should be awake in a bit. He will have a doozy of a headache.”
“Doozy? Is that a medical term, Doctor Mitchell?” Erin smiled.
“It is a relieved son-in-law’s prognosis for his wonderful wife.” Ben kissed Erin on the cheek. “He’ll be fine, Nurse Mitchell, truly,” Ben whispered before pulling away.
Ben stood for a long moment at the door of Cole’s room. It was odd to see the man he always saw as invincible in a hospital bed with IVs and oxygen.
“Hey, buddy. What brings you here?” Cole rasped, one eye still closed.
Ben crossed the room to the side of the bed and patted Cole on the shoulder. “You feel like talking?”
“That’s what the cop said and I pretended to go back to sleep.”
“How are you feeling?”
“If that’s a doctor question, not-so hot. If it’s a son-in-law question that will get back to my daughter, fit as a fiddle.”
“What’s up with these knots on your head?” Ben asked.
Cole explained the attack on the street. He left out some of the details, but gave Ben enough of the story so he understood the attack was a serious warning.
“Why were you at mom’s?”
“Those stupid fish she’s babysitting. They’re fried fish now. Man, is your mom going to be furious.” Cole paused. “What about the houseboat?”
“Gone,” Ben replied sadly.
“He had to have followed me from the paper. How did I get here? All I remember is being in the water. Then the ambulance.”
“They tell me the neighbor smelled smoke and got you out.” Ben shrugged.
“Erin is here. You feel like company?”
“Yes, you think I can make it down to the waiting room?” Cole coughed violently.
“There you go!” Ben encouraged. “Don’t be afraid to get the stuff up.”
“I feel like I smoked a carton of Camels.”
“Probably close. Since it appears you will not expire in the near future, I think I will get back to work. I’ll check back on you later this evening.”
“Tell Erin I would love to see her.”
“They said an hour, so be patient.” Ben replied.
“I am a patient.”
“You’re fine.” Ben laughed as he waved from the door.
* * *
Grinds & Brews was nearly empty. A couple huddled in the corner furthest from the door and whisper-screamed at each other. To Hanna’s amusement, they thought no one could hear her anger at his slovenly ways, and his regret at co-signing a lease. The barista busied herself wiping down all the chrome and copper surfaces.
Hanna took a seat against the wall. She made up a tale of a doctor appointment to get to the coffee shop by nine o’clock. She called to check on Cole and he answered the phone. Grumpy and a bit grouchy, but he said he was more damaged by his hospital stay than the fire. From her vantage point she could see the windows on either side of the door. She would be able to spot Skeeter long before he saw her.
She checked and re-checked her pen, digital recorder, and lipstick in her compact mirror. Her butterflies had all flown. Her worry about what Cole would do or think about her masquerade as a reporter was long pushed aside. She was in deep and there was no turning back now. Her only concern would be Skeeter Evans’s reaction to her sitting at the table instead of Cole.
When Hanna glanced up from her short list of questions she saw a man staring at her though the window. He looked nothing like what she envisioned on the phone. His eyes were dull, unfeeling, and devoid of emotion. He stared expressionless into the coffee shop. It had to be him, Hanna thought.
The man in the window turned and began to walk away. Hanna ran to the door, more of a reflex, than an action brought about by reasonable thought.
“Skeeter?” Hanna said, holding the door with her left hand and leaning out onto the sidewalk.
“Yeah?” Skeeter turned to face Hanna.
“I’m Hanna, we spoke on the phone?”
“Yeah.”
“Wouldn’t you like to come in?”
There was no effort on Skeeter Evans’ part trying to hide his disgust or annoyance. He stood for a long moment, not looking at Hanna, hands shoved deep in his pockets, just gazing straight ahead.
“Where’s Sage?”
“Well,” Hanna hesitated, then lifted the newspaper, flashed Skeeter the headline and said, “Hospital.”
“What?”
“How ‘bout I buy you a cup of coffee and explain?” Hanna turned on her halogen smile and motioned for him to “come on in”. He complied.
With a boxer’s dexterity Hanna bobbed and weaved around any detail, or request for details, Skeeter threw at her about Cole’s hospitalization. She was there to interview him, not the other way around. This was her time, and her chance, nothing was going to derail her focus.
“So what happens now?” Hanna began.
“What do you mean?”
“Jesse’s gone. What will you do?”
“We continue to spread the truth of his teachings.”
“Is that possible without Jesse? I mean, he was the message, wasn’t he?”
Skeeter shifted in his chair and it gave a bark from scooting on the tile. He tried to seem relaxed but the rippling of his jaw muscles told an entirely different story. He took a deep breath through his nose and let it out the same way.
“Christianity seems to have done pretty well without their leader.”
“Hmmm. Well, yes, it has,” Hanna conceded. “But the risen-from-the-grave angle is something you don’t have. I mean, where is Jesse?”
For the first time Skeeter bristled visibly. “We don’t need him.”
There it was, there’s nowhere to retreat from that statement. Hanna’s mind raced for the perfect follow-up question. Here was more than she bargained for. If he would just not bolt; she pretended to check her notes.
Before she could formulate her next question, Skeeter continued. “The message, the vision, it was mine. Jesse was the medium, but the movement, the promotion, the program, if you want to call it that, was all my idea.”
“I thought Jesse was ‘God’s other son’ or ‘Jesus for a new generation’ or something. Did I get that wrong?” Hanna would rather bite her tongue out, than be the first one to speak next.
Skeeter stared at Hanna through squinted eyes. This was the new beginning. Without Jesse, he was in charge. He felt a flush of empowerment come over him. The years of guiding, polishing, coercing and playing second fiddle were over.
“Look, you people in the media will never get the big picture. This world is controlled by the spiritual. Controlling or tapping into the spiritual is given to a few vessels; Julius Cesar, Napoleon, Buddha, Muhammad, the Dali Lama, Gandhi, and although you may argue the point, Adolph Hitler. The skeptic will call it charisma, mass hysteria, marketing, or a fad. The truth is they are part of the universal spirit, a very real power, given to a very few. Jesse was a preacher, a communicator. Until he met me, he was talking to a handful of people a week. He was not part of the Power of the Air.” Skeeter leaned forward and said in a softer voice, “I hope you’re getting this down, you’re the first to be given this truth.”
