Cole Fire

  COLE FIRE

  __________________________

  A Cole Sage Mystery

  MICHEAL MAXWELL

  Copyright © 2015 Micheal Maxwell

  Smashwords Edition

  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.

  Three Nails is a tale of tragedy, redemption, and hope from the author of the bestselling Cole Sage series. To receive a free ebook copy straight to your inbox, click here.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Cole Fire

  About the Author

  Also by Micheal Maxwell

  Copyright

  COLE FIRE

  ONE

  A tattered black and white MIA Bring Them Home flag snapped in the wind. Two feet away the Stars and Stripes were no longer red, white and blue but a sad, faded, bleed of color. Both flags bowed the thin wisp of rod they sat atop. Three feet below the symbols of pride and regret sat a man in a wheelchair. He faced the Taylor Street entrance of the Veterans Administration Hospital of San Francisco.

  He wore the dress uniform of the United States Army. The deep blue was dusty on the shoulders and no longer fit like the youth it was issued to so many, many, years ago. His big belly kept the tarnished brass buttons from closing. A plaid blanket covered his lap, tightly tucked in at the sides and behind his thin lifeless legs.

  Sitting in his lap was a manila envelope containing a letter stating his benefits no longer covered his emotional counseling. There was a nice paragraph about state and local options for treatment, and a short but curt sentence closed the letter with “consider this our last communication on this issue. Of course, all of your benefits for continued medical treatment are intact.”

  The letter’s recipient had his head tilted back as he gazed motionless at the sky. In prayer perhaps, one more of the myriad pleas made to the Almighty for help? He sat alone in the concrete and asphalt covered empty lot. The chain link fence around the lot partially blocked the view from the front doors of the hospital. It took a couple of hours for someone curious enough to walk across the grass and find the old warrior.

  His cheap revolver lay on the ground next to him. Skull, hair and brains streamed behind him like the tail of a comet. There was no longer a need for prayer, or help from the Veteran’s Administration. The Vietnam War had claimed another casualty. This one, however, would never be added to the tally.

  * * *

  “Wiltz.”

  “Mr. Wiltz, this is Tariq at the Taylor entrance.”

  “Hey buddy, what’s goin’ on?”

  “Nothing that wonderful. We have kind of a situation. I would count it a big favor if you could come on down.” The security guard’s voice was friendly but pleading.

  “All right. On my way.”

  Don Wiltz closed his office door and stopped at his secretary’s desk on his way to the stairs.

  “Something’s up at the Taylor entrance. I’ll be back in a few.”

  “Don’t forget your eleven o’clock.” Wiltz’s secretary, Terri, was his greatest asset, and her reminders were not to go unheeded.

  “I won’t. Be right back.” Don smiled.

  Wiltz’s mood was good for a Tuesday. By Friday, he would succumb to the feeling of hopelessness and despair that overshadowed every positive thing in his life. File by file, minute by minute, day by day, his job was killing him. Not in a physical sense, but emotionally, spiritually and psychologically. He was standing at the door of a very dark place.

  The sight of police, ambulance and fire vehicles parked on Taylor Street as he rounded the stairwell and entered the lobby were a sure sign that the small blessings of this Tuesday morning were about to be crushed.

  “Mr. Wiltz,” Tariq said excitedly. “Thank you for comin’ down.”

  Wiltz patted Tariq’s shoulder and said, “What’s all this?”

  “One of ours, I think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You better just go see. They kept asking me questions and I just don’t know...”

  “No problem. I’ll go have a look.”

  Don Wiltz’s aversion to lights and sirens bordered on phobia. Loud noises and bright lights were triggers he had learned to live with. Years of counseling had taught him the skills needed to center his thoughts and focus on his reflective exercises, to vanquish the panic.

  The sounds of the first responders, who were staged but unneeded, was a mix of talking, shouting and radio squawks. Wiltz walked past the fire truck at the curb. Four police cars blocked the street and a coroner’s van was pulled just inside the fence.

  Two firemen stood at the gate of the construction fence, half-heartedly trying to loop the chain back around the gate in an attempt to hide the fact they had cut the lock. As Don Wiltz approached, one of the firemen turned and said, “‘Fraid you can’t go in there, sir.”

  “What happened?”

  “Appears to be a suicide.”

  “I’m a VA counselor. It was suggested the fellow might be one of ours.”

  “I’m afraid he’s well beyond counseling. I don’t guess it can hurt anything. Just wait until we walk off.”

  “Thanks,” Wiltz offered. The firefighters made their way back to their truck and Wiltz pulled the chain and opened the gate.

  As he made his way across the former building site, Wiltz self-consciously fumbled with the laminated name tag he wore around his neck. The lines of fresh sprouting weeds accented the cement, asphalt, and patch of bare ground as he made his way to the group standing fifty yards away. Nature reclaims, he thought as he kicked at the thin line of vegetation.

  “Sorry, sir, you can’t be in here,” a uniformed policeman scolded as Wiltz approached the group scattered around the wheelchair.

  “VA,” Wiltz said, holding up his name badge, and kept walking as if he had every right to be there.

  “You got all the shots you need?” A tall Asian man in a dark blue suit barked at a fat guy frantically snapping pictures.

  “I guess so.”

  “Then you can take off.”

  “OK guys, he’s all yours.”

  Two coroner’s deputies rolled the waiting gurney closer to the man in the wheelchair.

  “Wait. Please, just a moment,” Wiltz said, stepping up to the group.

  “And just who might you be?” the man in the suit asked gruffly.

  “Don Wiltz, I’m a VA counselor,” Wiltz gestured at the hospital across the street.

  The man in the suit approached Wiltz with his hand outstretched. “Leonard Chin, San Francisco PD. Look, Mr. Wiltz, I don’t know how you got in here but I’m afraid this gentleman no longer requires your help.”

  “I understand,” Don said softly. “I just really wanted to see if he truly was one of ours. I just need a moment.”

  “OK guys, give him a second,” Chin said to the coroner’s deputies.

  “Thank you, officer.”

  “Lieutenant,” Chin said flatly.

  Wiltz nodded and stepped up to the body in the wheelchair. He tried to not look at the deep purple bruising of the man’s face. His eyes shifted to the brass name tag on the uniform. Baranski. Wiltz slowly looked up into the man’s face. It was Charles Baranski, without a doubt. A wave of blurry lightheadedness came over Wiltz; the man was indeed “one of theirs”.

  “You know him?” Chin broke the silence.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “This could explain some things.” Chin handed Wiltz the
manila envelope from Baranski’s lap.

  It was a form letter. Don Wiltz had seen hundreds of them. More times than he could recall he had tried to explain why men and women, mentally broken and scarred in the service of their country, no longer qualified for the slender thread of emotional support they clung to every hour of the day. The letter was not even dignified with a real signature, just a printed scribble at the bottom.

  “It explains a lot.” Wiltz said softly, handing back the envelope.

  Without another word, Wiltz turned and started back toward the gate. Halfway there he threw up.

  * * *

  “Your eleven o’clock is here.”

  “I can’t.”

  The door closed behind Don Wiltz. He didn’t turn the light on. He walked to the window and closed the blinds. It wasn’t dark but it was close. For a long moment he stood in the center of his office facing his desk. He repeatedly ran his tongue back and forth across his upper lip. Both of his fists were clenched tightly and softly pounded against the side of his hips.

  To make the darkness complete, Don Wiltz squeezed his eyes tightly closed. He was in the dark place. He stepped over the threshold into his inner self, his deepest fears, regrets, and the long-buried trauma of war. He dropped to a squatting position and crossed his arms over his head. Silently he rolled onto his back, then to his side. Don Wiltz was frozen. He couldn’t move. It felt good. The darkness and hard carpeted floor were a solid place to be, but there was the another way, a way to feel even better, safer, protected.

  It took his every muscle, every sinew, all his will, but he began to shift his weight, rolling first to his shoulders, then his hips. Wiltz wriggled his way around his desk. He pushed his chair back with his head and neck. He rolled and scooted until he was under his desk, his back resting against the front panel. Using both hands he covered his eyes.

  The bloody purple flesh that was Charlie Baranski’s face projected in the dark. The image would not fade. He saw the fragile, wounded man across his desk turn into a bruised, skull-less mask, then back again. Charlie was eaten by the war machine, fodder for the guns of meaningless enemies. Charlie was Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan, Korea, and Bosnia. Charlie was the client list that never got smaller, just more and more every day. Young men, young women who were never able to return, unable to bathe their souls in the balm of home, family, wives, lovers, friends. The stain of blood and terror tattooed their very being. Some were now past retirement age, some middle-aged, and some in their prime years of life, but all imprisoned in the hell of war.

  Little did they know that the shrapnel of fear they carried was also embedded deep within the man they looked to for words, for truth, for salvation. The man who the government paid to help piece their lives back together again was just as fragile, just as damaged as they were. His scars were just covered deeper by decades of calluses.

  As Wiltz lay in the dark under his desk, rocking back and forth and humming Gimme Shelter, he fell asleep.

  The knock on the door was not the light tap of a gentle interruption. It was a demand, an order to pay attention.

  “Don? You all right?” Terri’s voice cut through the door as if it wasn’t there.

  Wiltz scrambled to get to his chair.

  “Don?” This time the voice was accompanied by a shaft of brilliant white light cutting through the cool dark comfort of his office.

  “Yeah, yeah, fine. I have a headache, that’s all.” Wiltz lied.

  “It’s four o’clock. I’ve got a doctor appointment, remember?”

  “Yes, just close the door, the light is killing me.” Wiltz demanded.

  “You want something for it? Tylenol, aspirin?” Terri’s tone softened.

  “No, it wouldn’t work. Thank you. Sorry I snapped at you.”

  “You should go home. I’ll let the voicemail take the calls. I gotta roll. You go home. Hope you feel better,” Terri offered as she let the door close easily behind her.

  Wiltz sat in the dark for a few minutes longer. Finally, he went to the window and slowly cracked the blinds. Little by little he let the dim late afternoon light wash into his office from the shady side of the building. He stood watching the wind blow the trees in the distance. Thirty years of kind words, encouragement and meaningless blather. That is what his life represented.

  “We can no longer cover your emotional counseling,” Wiltz said mockingly into the half-lit office.

  With his hands driven deep into his pockets Don Wiltz left his department. Again, he took the stairs. Thankfully, he made no human contact on his way out of the building.

  He didn’t want to, he tried hard not to, but he just had to look across the street at where Charlie Baranski was found. The asphalt and concrete were bare, awaiting the start of new construction. He frantically searched for police tape or something that would mark the spot, then he saw the dark stain of Charlie’s last act. Wiltz threw his arm over his eyes and walked on. The transit bus was pulling up as Wiltz approached the corner of Taylor and Damen. He ran the last few yards to the bus.

  Just three more stops for Wiltz’s on his way home. Six people got off and three got on. This time Don Wiltz noticed something different. An Asian couple, laughing and giggling, got on the bus and sat across the aisle and one seat ahead of him. The girl was pretty, and the young man was neatly groomed. They were both well dressed and obviously in love.

  Wiltz watched them chat as the bus rolled along. He was no longer in San Francisco. Her shiny black hair and brown skin was a Saigon photograph come to life. Don Wiltz owned albums full of similar pictures. Bar girls, shop girls, pretty Southeast Asian beauties. What was she doing here?

  At the next stop Wiltz moved to the seat in front of the couple. He waited for the bus to get up to speed before he turned around.

  “He died for you!” Wiltz said to the couple.

  “I’m sorry?” The young man replied politely.

  “He died for you.” Wiltz repeated.

  “We have our own religion, thank you for sharing.” The young man was polite but firm.

  “Charles Baranski.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “No, Charles Baranski died so you could be here. Ride this bus, breathe this free air in San Francisco.”

  “Then we’re grateful. Look, we just want to ride in peace. We don’t want any problems.”

  The speaker overhead crackled and the harsh voice of the driver bellowed out a warning question, “Is there a problem back there?”

  Wiltz spun around in his seat. He didn’t see the young man wave an OK sign to the driver. The couple shrugged and grinned at each other. Just another San Francisco crazy, they whispered. Two stops later the young man bid his girlfriend good-bye and hopped off the bus.

  As if coming out of a dream, Wiltz opened his eyes and realized the bus was pulling away from his stop. He must have dozed off. Somehow it didn’t matter. He could have jumped up and probably been able to get off. He just sat and watched as the bus rolled along.

  Out the window were signs, stores, and street names Don wasn’t familiar with. He was back in San Francisco. The memories of Saigon faded and were replaced by an uneasy feeling of concern. He needed to get home. He must get off the bus and get turned around. In another moment, he thought.

  Just the other side of Ainslie the bus pulled over. It was a busy stop, people moving in and out, jostling bags, backpacks, and strollers. He watched the line shorten, then he saw her. The girl behind him got off the bus and was walking away. Wiltz jumped to his feet and pressed his way through the crowd to the rear exit.

  The harsh glare of the late afternoon sun was turning to the muted shades of dusk. A group of people were making their way along the sidewalk ahead of him. In the center of the group the young Southeast Asian woman walked alone. Wiltz recognized her black leather jacket, and the bright red purse she clutched so tightly when he had tried to talk to them. Without taking his eyes from her, Wiltz began to follow.

  All around him the signs of
Pho shops and Vietnamese markets began to light up. One by one, on both sides of the street, the dull colors of twilight were vanquished in the reds and blues of neon signs. Wiltz looked around him. The lettering on the shop windows took him back to Vietnam. The people passing were no longer the predominantly white majority where he lived, but almost all Southeast Asian.

  Wiltz floated just between the cracking world of the in-control, self-assured VA counselor and a panicked twenty-year-old soldier wandering the streets and alleys of 1973 Saigon. One moment the sixty-one-year-old was questioning why he was following a young girl through Little Saigon; the next, he was a soldier on the lookout for his next “hot date.”

  “These are the enemy,” he said to no one. “You need to find the other guys. Get back to the group. Never wander off alone. That’s what the sergeant said.”

  The bustle of early evening was a distraction, and when Wiltz refocused and looked ahead, the girl was gone. He glanced up both sides of the street. The sidewalks were busy, but not so much he couldn’t have spotted her. Where had she gone?

  Walking slowly, almost cat-like, Wiltz looked in each shop and business he passed. Once he saw his reflection in the window of a restaurant and was confused at his image. His search turned up nothing. In a lucid moment he asked himself what it mattered. He didn’t know the girl. It was then that the voice came to him.

  “She’s VC.”

  * * *

  The first time he heard the voice, he shook it off and walked on. The second time he heard it, he realized it was Charles Baranski.

  “It’s her fault, Don,” the voice said.

  As Wiltz stopped in front of Happy Three Nails, he saw the girl. She was taking off her jacket and hanging it on a coat rack behind the reception desk.