The bus stopped, the doors opened, and Candace and the driver hopped out. Cole could hear the guttural “uuugh” of the jackals behind him. He felt the seat move back as Mark Pollard, the most vicious of the three older boys, pulled in behind him. Cole stood straight up as fast as he could. He reared his head back and heard the low thud as his head struck Mark’s chin. Then Cole spun around and with all his might hit Paul Thompson in the nose as he started to make the ghastly grunting growl of their pack. Lonnie Collins, the third of the trio, stood legs spread and hands across the aisle to prevent any help from the back of the bus, even though no one had ever come to Cole’s aid. Collins’ eyes blazed with anger and hate until Cole pulled back and kicked him in the groin with enough force that he could have easily made a 50-yard field goal.
Cole hopped up and sat in the vacant front seat across from the bus driver. Behind him, he heard the groaning and crying of his three fallen enemies. Each of the three bullies lay either on a seat or the floor, all out of the line of the driver’s vision. Mark’s tongue was nearly bitten off when Cole’s head slammed his jaws closed. Thompson had a broken nose, and Collins would roll and groan, holding his crotch long into the evening.
On Tuesday morning, two of the parents called the school. Cole was not mentioned by name, but a girl on the bus told the principal that the older boys had been picking on Cole. When a call slip summoned Cole to the principal’s office, he was prepared to use the second lesson his father had taught him in the garage. This was less noble than the fighting lessons but over the years would serve Cole on more occasions. Cole reviewed the rules in his head as he waited: Admit nothing, deny everything, and destroy any evidence.
Cole’s father had explained that the burden of proof is always the responsibility of the prosecution. To a sixth grader, this was heady stuff, but it was quickly committed to memory. Occasionally, when least expected, his father would quiz Cole on the Rules of War, as they were known between them. Cole wasn’t quite sure what they all meant, but he was always ready.
Principal Little frowned at Cole as he ushered him into his office.
“Were you on Bus 18 yesterday afternoon?” Principal Little began.
Cole didn’t answer.
“Three boys were injured pretty badly,” Little went on.
“Really?” Cole said. Admit nothing, he thought.
“Allan Collins said you were responsible.” Little’s voice softened with the lie. He slowly leaned toward Cole.
“He’s an eighth grader,” Cole said, as though the mere idea was ridiculous.
“Did you see what happened?”
“No.” Cole looked straight at the principal. Deny everything, he thought.
“Were you the one who beat them up?”
Cole laughed and said, “I wish!” He felt empowered by the Rules of War.
“This isn’t funny, young man.” Little’s face was turning a deeper shade of his usual pink.
“I was sitting next to the bus driver,” Cole offered calmly.
“We’ll see about that!” Little’s anger seemed to be growing.
“Ask Delores, she’ll tell you.” Cole had never had a confrontation with an adult other than his parents. They always won because they communicated to Cole why he was in the wrong or why the rules were the way they were. Even if he hated it, in a way he always understood. The adult he faced now was like one of the kids on the playground. They just got madder and madder and always lost because they couldn’t think anymore. Cole was elevated to a new level in life as he realized that adults did the same thing! He knew that, equipped with this power, he could win against any adult. I can rule the world, Cole thought to himself.
“That’s Mrs. Bellpassi to you!” Little broke into Cole’s thoughts.
“I sat right across from her,” Cole said, looking the man straight in the eyes.
The principal picked up his desk phone and dialed a three-digit number. “Bus shed? Is Mrs. Bellpassi around? Yes.” Little glared at Cole as he waited for the driver to come on the line. “Delores, Mr. Little here. Where was Cole Sage sitting on yesterday afternoon’s bus? He was. All right. That’s what I needed to know. No, no, I’ll fill you in later.” Some of the power seemed to have seeped out of the red-faced little man.
Principal Little moved around a note pad and straightened several pencils that were on the top of his desk. After nearly a minute, he looked up at Cole. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“No, sir.”
“Mrs. Bellpassi confirms your story. I still think something is fishy about this whole mess.” Little sounded defeated even though he still glared at Cole.
“Do you really think a six grader could beat up three eighth graders?” Cole knew he had won both on the bus and now with Little. But he needed to push it just a little.
“I suppose not. But I had better never hear of another problem on the bus again. I will call your parents and it’ll be their responsibility to get you to school. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir. I won’t have a problem on the bus.”
That afternoon, only one of the three eighth graders rode the bus home. Cole never had another problem on the bus. Although his father had been dead for years, there were many times Cole thought of the Rules of War and wanted to ask him about them. Had he lived by those rules himself? Cole had never seen his father do anything violent or be put in a position that would warrant the use of the Rules, but Cole had used them—not often, but enough to know they worked and, unfortunately, several times the results were far from what he intended. By and large, he subscribed to them and knew that if he’d had a son, he would have taught them to him. In today’s world, they seemed far more necessary than the world he had lived in as a boy.
Cole thought of the mugger, his animal fierceness, and the grotesque contortion of his face. Then he thought of the wounded, howling figure leaning back against the 7-Eleven windows. Would he have really hurt me? Cole wondered. But this wasn’t a schoolyard; this was a cruel, angry world. It was the threat his father spoke of long ago. The threat that someone might hurt or possibly kill him had put Cole into fight-or-flight mode. He had done the right thing. He couldn’t have run. His bike was there. He couldn’t have ridden off. He would’ve taken too long mounting, and if the man had attacked Cole, he would have had a difficult time defending himself straddling a bicycle. He had done what was necessary. Cole was not a violent person; he knew that violence had its place, but only as a deterrent to further violence.
During college, Cole had seen Sam Peckinpah’s Straw Dogs with Dustin Hoffman. Hoffman played a mild-mannered math professor driven to extreme violence when circumstances around him spiraled out of control. At the time, Cole was struck by the underlying question the film presented: Just how far would a person go to protect his home? Over the years, the idea had become one of his favorite after-dinner conversation starters. He realized that many years ago, it was easy to say “whatever it takes”—and most men did. In reality, Cole was unsettled in his own mind just how far he could actually go.
Cole realized that it was dusk, and he saw the fog begin to roll up from the bay. Soon the bridge and the entire marina would disappear into a grey blanket. As night fell, the grey would turn to a white veil that swirled around street lamps. The fog would turn headlights of cars into solid conical tubes projecting from the vehicles. All the hookers, muggers, dopers, and street people in the city would appear and disappear within a few steps. It was time to go inside.
ALSO BY MICHEAL MAXWELL
Diamonds and Cole (Cole Sage Mystery #1)
Cellar Full of Cole (Cole Sage Mystery #2)
Helix of Cole (Cole Sage Mystery #3)
Cole Dust (Cole Sage Mystery #4)
Three Nails: A Novella
“The Return of the Bride” (a short story in the anthology, Eight the Hard Way)
Copyright © 2013 Micheal Maxwell
Ebook formatting by Robert Swartwood
This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Micheal Maxwell.
Cellar Full of Cole: A Cole Sage Mystery #2 Page 21