[Cole Sage 03.0] Helix of Cole

by Micheal Maxwell

  Reed moved quickly across the street. On the right side of the house, he saw the telephone box. It was thick with many coats of paint from the house’s repainting. Removing the screw that held the box closed didn’t require a tool; the last technician barely hand-tightened it. Reed clipped the lead wire from the test phone to the house terminals and dialed the number from the Bits & Chips business card.

  “Hello.” Cole’s voice was crisp and clear through the test phone.

  “Mr. Sage, this is Jason Reed.”

  Cole unconsciously licked the spoon he held in his hand and laid it on the table.

  “Well, hello, Mr. Reed,” Cole said flatly.

  “I thought we should have a talk. If you live, you will be the one writing my story. I thought you should have access to the truth and not the files of the Falsifying Bureau of Intimidation.”

  “I have a question for you, then.” Cole took a deep breath and let it out slowly away from the mouthpiece of the phone. He steeled himself before beginning again. “Why me? We have never met, and I have no connection with any movement or organization.” Cole tried to sound calm, as though he got calls every day from murderous madmen. He frantically fumbled to find a pad and pencil.

  “Simple. You disrespected the memory of those who tried to bring about change. You belittled the leaders of the revolution that began in the ’60s and will end with me. I have chosen you to give you a chance to make things right.”

  “I suppose I should be honored. But you know, the ’60s were over a long time ago. Your friend Mel Lyman has been dead a long time, nearly 30 years. How old are you, 60?”

  “Age is no factor in truth. What you need to know is the ideals we learned back then were the seeds for what is to come.”

  “And what are those?” Cole calmed from his initial shock of hearing Reed’s voice. He was doing what he did best, interview; and this would surely be the interview of his life.

  “The power structure of the world must change. The banks, the oil companies, and the Jews who run them have no concern for our Mother the Earth.”

  “Wait,” Cole interrupted. “The Jews? If I remember my lessons from the ’60s, peace and love will overcome greed and hatred. You sound like a garden-variety racist to me. You know, Bob Dylan’s a Jew. Wasn’t he the spokesman of the generation? So was Jesus. ‘Love thy neighbor,’ that ring any bells? How are you going to sell a message that sounds an awful lot like Hitler?”

  “You are so blind. I don’t care if those in charge are Jews or Irish or black or Chinese or little green men from outer space. The fact is, they happen to be Jews. Jews have always controlled the money of the earth. I am sorry if it offends your ‘mustn’t have labels’ brand of liberalism, but it’s the truth.”

  “Okay, so the Jews who control the money also control the governments of the world?”

  “Oh, Mr. Sage, I am disappointed. I thought maybe you could be educated. I can see I’m wasting my time. Don’t play games with me; try to put what I’m saying in some pigeonhole. Money is God, God is money. All things are controlled by it. This is what must change. The people must take back the earth, even if it means returning to the Garden of Eden.”

  “How will we do it, then? How can we return to a place where money doesn’t control everything? I just don’t get where you’re trying to take me. I admit it. But I am listening.” Cole did not want Reed to hang up. He had no idea what difference it would make but he felt he must keep him talking, get the story, and by doing so, find a way to stop whatever he had in mind.

  “I have a bomb, Mr. Sage. Not like what you have seen, but a nuclear device. I am going to destroy this city. I think from the number of body bags we have filled recently, you know I’m a serious man. It will be Step One. People will see that things must change. We must stop burning fossil fuels. We must stop cutting down the rainforest. People will rise up when they see that the power elite can be brought down. Seeing that one man can bring down a government will bring hope to the hearts of those—like me—who know things cannot go on the way they are.”

  Cole challenged, “Who will lead this revolution? You? A movement is only as strong as the man at the top. Until the last few days, no one has ever heard of you. I dare say 99% of the world still hasn’t. If I get what you’re saying, you’ll destroy the very framework that will get your message out.”

  “I am the light. Light exposes darkness. Once the light is seen, others will spread the word.”

  “I wish I could believe. I just don’t see people getting out of their cars and torching their cities in an effort to return to Eden.”

  “Those who believe will. Those who can’t, won’t, don’t, will be sacrificed for the health of our Mother. I’m sure you believe in a woman’s right to choose, don’t you, Mr. Sage? In case of incest, rape, or to save the life of the mother? There are many who will be aborted to save the Mother.”

  “You speak of the earth as a living being. Do you believe that the planet is more important than the people who live on it? Does the earth have a soul? Can it give and receive love, can it communicate?”

  “The people who inhabit the earth must get back to a knowledge of her power. Modern man has rationalized away the magic and power of nature. Who can listen to the humming of the earth’s magnetic pull while watching television? You see, Mr. Sage, you and I don’t matter. Neither do the three or four hundred thousand who occupy this hilly ground called San Francisco. When the people get back to loving their Mother and not destroying her, our sacrifice will all be worth it. Before birth comes pain, so before this rebirth, there will have to be some pain.”

  “So, how, if I may ask, will this cleansing begin?” Cole scribbled on his notepad and waited for a response.

  “I will detonate the bomb in the next few days. I need you to write the story. Tell the people what happened and why. You will be my John the Baptist, crying out telling the people to repent. The difference is, by then I’ll be gone.”

  “Why are you letting me know when you’re going to do it? I can call the media, the police, and have the city evacuated.”

  “But you won’t. The story is too good. You will be the teller of the last great story of Modern Man.” Reed laughed. “You’ll be famous—” He paused. “For a little while, anyway.”

  “Have you ever had a friend? Lover? Anyone you were close to?”

  “Well, Dr. Freud, I never knew my mother.”

  “Why won’t you answer?” Cole struck a nerve. “It’s a legitimate question of any leader. People will want to know. So, have you ever loved anyone who has loved you back?”

  “This has nothing to do with the mission.” Reed lowered his voice.

  “Oh, but I think it does. If you had someone you loved, I don’t think you would be so eager to kill the loved ones of others. Who loves you, Jason Reed? Anyone at all?”

  “A leader must sacrifice such sentimental foolishness.”

  “So, who did you sacrifice?”

  “I will set the bomb off tomorrow,” Reed snapped. “I thought talking to you would help get the message out. Now I regret it.”

  “Why? I took notes of everything you said. Except I don’t have an answer to my question. Or this one either, probably: Why were you kicked out of the Lyman Family? I don’t think you can be truthful with yourself. That’s why you won’t answer my questions. Too long alone. So, is it men or women with you? Is this some repressed sexual dysfunction with you or what? Big bomb, little—”

  “You’re trying to provoke me. I will not be provoked. This revolution is bigger than you or me.” There was a new tension to Reed’s voice.

  “It’s in your head. Like Napoleon, Hitler, even your own god complex acid casualty Mel Lyman. It ain’t gonna happen. You’re just another in a long line of loose screws in history. Sure, you’ll kill a lot of innocent people, but there isn’t going to be any revolution except in your own twisted imagination. How’s that feel? Anybody ever tell you the truth? Or were you too busy killing them to listen?”
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  “I should have killed you, too. I still could, you know,” Reed growled. “I thought I would let you tell the story; I see that was a mistake. People are tired of being manipulated. You can’t manipulate me. The people who will form the new world can’t be manipulated either. They know the truth, inert truth, truth inside, not given by man. They will rise up, and they will continue what I will start.”

  Cole felt empowered. “The sad thing is, this kind of talk probably made sense after two joints and a bottle of cheap wine, but the reality is that your appeal is to about 100—okay, let’s be generous, 1,000 people. There are several billion on the earth. In Third World countries, they will never hear of you. If they do, they will be too busy trying to find something to eat to be very revolutionary. The people with a higher standard of living will just brush your message off; they are too self-absorbed and comfortable. That leaves all the malcontents. Like Jim Morrison said, “They got the guns, but we got the numbers,” and the guns always win in the end. Why not try to bring about change through education instead of death? What about the marchers you blew up? There’s your army, and you sacrificed them. For what?”

  “They weren’t ready!” Reed, for the first time, let his voice explode with rage.

  “And these imaginary revolutionaries are? They are faceless, and you don’t even know how many there are, if there are any at all. You’re by yourself. If you want to kill yourself, just do it. Don’t use some imaginary martyrdom and kill innocent people. Have the balls to just do it. You say you want to share the truth, well, there’s the real truth. How do you like it?”

  “The media seductress of money has blinded you to the real truth. I am the truth, I bring the light.”

  “Look, I’m not a wise man. I’m just a journalist. But there are two universal truths I am sure of: One, there is a God. Two, you’re not Him. Neither was Mel Lyman, and neither am I.” Cole sighed. “You are a serious man, with serious desires to save the earth. Stop now, share your thoughts, write. Writing reaches people. Mine reached you even though you didn’t like it. Yours could reach millions. Violence won’t bring the kind of change you want. The Russian Revolution proved that. Countless millions died; countless others lived in despair and sadness, and 70 years later, it all collapsed. And how? Not with a revolution but with ideas. When people want change, change will come.”

  Reed answered, “You asked if I had any friends. I think at another time and under different circumstances, you and I could have been friends. Now it is too late. Write my story, Mr. Sage. Tell the world it must change.” There was a tone of resignation in Reed’s voice.

  Before Cole could answer, the line went dead. Jason Reed was gone. Cole put his hand over his mouth. He sat at the kitchen table and stared down at his notepad. The carton of hot and sour soup dripped condensation on the tabletop and formed a puddle. The sourdough bread set surrounded by crumbs. Cole sat motionless for several minutes. Then he reached over, tore a chunk off the bread, and dipped it in the lukewarm soup. As he bit off a piece, he began to read his notes. He added a word here, scratched one out there. For the most part, he captured it, his dialogue with madness.

  It was shortly after 9 o’clock when Cole got off the phone with Carter Washington. It seemed pointless to try to make anything out of his conversation with Reed. There was no way to evacuate a city based on the rantings of a lunatic. This lunatic had killed repeatedly. He would kill again, but did he have a nuclear weapon?

  Cole typed his notes into the computer he set up in the spare bedroom. He thought of going into his office, but he really wanted to be alone. As Cole hit the power button on the computer and picked up the phone, Reed watched the blue white glow of the bus approaching the bench where he sat patiently waiting.

  “Ben, this is Cole. I need for you to do something for me.”

  CHAPTER 10

  It was well after 2 a.m. when Cole finished typing. He slept fitfully and woke unrested at about 8 o’clock. He shaved, showered, and was partially dressed when the phone rang. He hopped toward the phone, trying to finish putting on his sock and fell headlong onto the floor. Jumping up, he grabbed the phone.

  “Hello, hello?” All he heard was a dial tone.

  Cole finished dressing and went into the kitchen. The half-empty carton of hot and sour soup still sat on the table. He picked it up and, without a moment’s hesitation, drank some of the cold liquid and got a mouthful of vegetables. As he chewed and slurped more of the soup, he made coffee. The soup was just as good cold as it was hot and left Cole wishing he had more. The soup made him realize how hungry he was, so he dug around in the freezer, found a frozen burrito and popped it in the microwave.

  With the microwave humming and the coffeemaker gurgling, Cole made his way to the front porch to get the morning paper. “112 Die in GG Park Bombing” screamed from the front page. The president’s plan to reform the Federal Land program and the governor’s veto of the new liquor sin tax took up most of the space below the fold. Cole scanned the story of the park bombing. Eighteen injured, still in serious and critical condition in area hospitals. There was a carefully worded statement from the police chief about remaining calm and how there was no proof yet that this was the work of Jason Reed, although all signs pointed that way. The chief pledged beefed-up security around the city and promised that the “coward who did this evil deed would not go unpunished.”

  The mayor called for a Day of Mourning to take place on Sunday. Cole thought of Reed’s threat and wondered if there would be a San Francisco on Sunday. The mayor, too, called for calm. He asked the citizens of San Francisco to show strength and resolve in this time of crisis and assured them that the animal that did this would be brought to justice.

  A small paragraph at the end of the story quoted the head of Greenpeace announcing a candlelight vigil at the site of the bombing. His remarks were short and to the point: “In a world gone mad with hatred, we who by name work toward peace—not just ecological but peace between all people—offer a $1 million dollar reward for the capture of those responsible for the senseless killing of our brothers and sisters.” The faithful, Cole thought.

  Most people would read the story, sip their Starbucks, and go to work without giving it another thought. Whackos killing whackos, it had nothing to do with them—yet. Had Reed seen the paper?

  Cole’s thoughts went back to his conversation with Ben and how foolish he felt asking his son-in-law to call in sick. It didn’t matter whether Reed was telling the truth or not; Cole had taken care of his family. For a moment, he felt a tinge of guilt, but it passed, and he was sure he’d done the right thing. The ding of the timer on the microwave interrupted his thoughts. He unwrapped the burrito and poured himself a cup of coffee. Just as he set the plate on the table, there was a knock at the door. He took a sip of coffee and went to answer it.

  Carter Washington and a pale, dark-haired woman with alarming blue eyes stood at the door. They each held a small brown paper bag and a leather briefcase. Washington held a cobalt blue mug that had “San Francisco” emblazoned in gold above a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge that curved at an exaggerated angle.

  “Breakfast?” Washington smiled.

  “You have real faith,” Cole said, flicking the empty mug with his middle finger.

  “Cole Sage, meet Special Agent Sarah Spiegelman.”

  “Agent Spiegelman, welcome.” Cole waved her in with a broad sweeping motion. As she passed, Cole caught the faint wisp of lilac perfume.

  Sarah Spiegelman was dressed in a well-tailored blue suit. Her white blouse seemed to glow against her navy jacket. At her neck was a white bow. Her A-line skirt hit the center of her knees; her stockings were a near-black navy blue.

  “Please call me ‘Sarah.’” She smiled.

  Cole led the way to the kitchen and offered seats at the kitchen table. He went to the cupboard and selected an elegant china cup and saucer. The set was an English Rose pattern with pale pink roses bordering the top and bottom edges of the cup and the o
uter and inner ring of the saucer.

  “For the lady,” Cole said, placing the cup and saucer in front of Sarah.

  “It’s lovely,” Sarah said, picking up the cup and turning it slowly.

  “It was my mother’s, her favorite. Funny, it’s the only thing I kept of hers when she died. I’m glad you like it. I can’t promise the same for my coffee. Or are you a tea person?”

  “I do prefer tea, if it’s no bother.”

  “None at all.” Cole turned to the cupboards. He hesitated, suddenly unable to remember what he was going to the cupboard for.

  “I got the pastry!” Washington said as he tore open the bags. “Got a plate, or shall we eat these ‘au naturale’?”

  “Let’s leave our clothes on,” Sarah quipped brightly.

  Cole turned a little too quickly to see if the straight-laced agent actually made a risqué joke. As their eyes met, he saw that her china white cheeks had turned a deep red. Cole smiled and remembered he was searching for the tea.

  “Aha, here it is.” Cole held the box out for his guest to see.

  “Twining’s Earl Grey. Very nice.”

  Cole took the teakettle from its spot under the bottom cupboard, rinsed and then partially filled it.

  “Sage! What in the world?” Washington said, lifting the plate with the burrito.

  It was Cole’s turn to blush. “Leftovers. Guess I don’t need it now.” Cole poured Washington a cup of coffee to take the attention away from the soggy little burrito.

  Cole couldn’t understand why he was feeling so undone. He felt like he was in hyper-drive. He went to the refrigerator and took out a small carton of half-and-half. “Cream?”