Helix of Cole Page 10

  As he lay on the bed 30 years later, Cole could have sworn he could smell patchouli oil. He met a lot of famous people since that night at the State Fair Exhibit Hall so long ago, but no one he ever met gave him a greater thrill. As the image of Janis Joplin onstage closing the show with “Summertime” drifted across his memory, Cole softly hummed along until he fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

  CHAPTER 6

  Cole was awakened by the pounding in his head. He was in a hard, deep sleep. The room was blacked out by thick curtains and, for a moment, Cole wasn’t quite sure where he was. He rolled over and blinked several times. The pounding wasn’t in his head—it was someone beating on the door.

  The light on the nightstand was touch-controlled, so Cole batted his hand around in the dark trying to hit the base. He was so sound asleep, he couldn’t shake it off. His fingers finally hit the cool brass of the lamp, and the light came on. His watch read 7:37 and the pounding began again.

  “Just a minute!” Cole yelled toward the door as he flipped back the covers, trying to find the plush terrycloth bathrobe from the closet. He ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed his eyes as he passed the mirror on his way to the door.

  Standing in the hall were agents Peralta and Julian.

  “Good morning!” Peralta offered brightly and brushed past Cole. He handed Cole a brown paper bag. “You strike me as a cherry-filled or chocolate-glaze man to me, so I got both. I, myself, am a mocha man, so I got this.” He gestured to the tall cup in his hand. “In the off chance you weren’t, I could drink it myself. Julian here is a Mormon, so he’s no threat in the coffee department.”

  “You hit a grand slam on all counts,” Cole said as he stepped back to let the men into the room. “If you can find a cup in here, I’ll share the mocha. I sense from this early house call that we’ve hit a snag somewhere.”

  “Not at all. That is, unless you object to an 8:30 departure flight.”

  “Departure flight?” Cole was still shaking off the cobwebs.

  “It was decided, unless you have some strong objection, that maybe it would be better if you took the call from our ‘bomb boy’ in Chicago.”

  “I’ll need to call the airline,” Cole offered.

  “All taken care of—our nickel, too.” Peralta smiled.

  “Can’t see how I can refuse, then. Can I trust you two not to eat my doughnuts while I shower?”

  “I’ll watch him, but I put in a coffee disclaimer,” sneered Julian. “Peralta is completely addicted to caffeine.”

  Cole pointed at Peralta. “No coffee, no doughnuts, or no flight.”

  At 8:35, Flight 318 to Chicago took off. Cole would never have told Peralta and Julian, but he was secretly pleased to be able to make a stop in Chicago. He was eager to see Harris and Olajean, and with his new job, he probably would’ve been at least a year away from a Chicago visit. He smiled at the thought of a reunion with old friends. The smile was short lived as he glanced at the airline seat phone and realized he hadn’t called the Chronicle to tell them he was going to be a day late getting back.

  Tom Harris was standing at the gate when Cole got off the plane. The two old friends exchanged handshakes and a hearty bear hug.

  “Hey, skinny!” Harris gave Cole a head-to-toe once over. “How much weight have you lost?”

  “Almost 30 pounds,” Cole said proudly.

  “Jeez, what’s your secret weight-loss plan? Or is it the subject of a future reality show?”

  “I bought a bike. I ride it all over the Marina area and even the bridge.”

  “The bridge? I assume you mean the Golden Gate? You sound like a native. First-name basis with one of the most famous sites in the world! Not bad for only a year.” Harris gave Cole a good-natured slap on the back. “Car’s out here.” Harris pointed as he made his way toward the exit.

  The ride to the Sentinel was spent catching up on family and work. About six blocks out, Harris got around to Cole’s reason for being in Chicago. “So, you figure out who this guy is?”

  “No clue. I really haven’t had much time to process all this. I can’t figure out, if he really has a bomb and is ready to use it, why he would call me? Just doesn’t figure if we have no history.”

  “At least that you are aware of. The feds are taking this really seriously. I think they know something we don’t. I’m not so sure, though. Since 9/11, they tend to jump first and ask questions later.”

  “The thing that gets me is that letter. I got the fax by FedEx. Who on earth could still be quoting Mel Lyman? I mean, nobody under 30 has ever heard of him. Even to old farts like us, Lyman’s just a footnote to the ’60s if he’s remembered at all.” Cole laughed half-heartedly.

  “Well, be careful. This guy sounds nuts.” Harris punched in the cassette sticking out of the player.

  The voice coming from the speakers gave Cole a shudder. There was something about it. It had an otherworldly air. The message could have been anyone’s words, but the clipped speech pattern and the direct, matter-of-fact delivery said that this was not just a crank call. Cole now knew why the feds were treating this seriously. Since this whole thing began, Cole was worried for the first time. What did this guy want with him?

  “Well, the old place looks the same,” Cole said as they pulled up in front of the Sentinel building.

  “You might want to reserve judgment on that.” Harris smiled. “I’ll park in the garage. See you upstairs.”

  The lobby of the Sentinel was completely remodeled. Cole hated it. It was modern, slick, and lacking the historical charm of the old lobby. Charcoal tile with gold sparkles replaced the old marble squares. The pale dove-grey walls lacked the charm of the time-yellowed plaster with all its coving. Things really don’t get better with time, Cole thought.

  “Hello, I need to see Mark Roberson. He’s expecting me. My name is Cole Sage.”

  The young woman pushed a series of buttons on her console and glanced up at Cole without smiling. “I’ll send him right up.” Without looking up, she handed Cole a laminated visitor’s pass. “He says you know the way.” Without missing a beat, she said into her headset, “Chicago Sentinel, how may I direct your call?”

  Cole slapped the top of the counter. “They’re nicer at the Chronicle.”

  The young woman behind the desk didn’t even look up; she simply buzzed Cole through to the inner offices.

  What once was home now seemed foreign and unfriendly. The elevator doors opened and closed on the first floor, without Cole seeing anyone who looked familiar. He rode the elevator up to the fourth floor with a man who stared at the numbers above the door without moving or even seeming to breathe. As he exited the elevator, he saw in the hall ahead of him the broad back and enormous hips of his old friend Olajean.

  Cole gave a long, loud wolf whistle in Olajean’s direction.

  “That better not be Cole Sage whistlin’ like that, disrespecting my femininity,” said a husky voice Cole would have recognized anywhere.

  Olajean turned and gave Cole a beautiful dimpled smile that showed as much in her eyes as on her lips. Cole gave her a warm hug and a peck on the cheek.

  “I been worried sick about you. What is this all about, Cole?”

  “I wish I knew. Guess we’ll see at noon. Why’d they haul you up here?”

  “They didn’t. I got this new girl to cover the phones, and I have assumed myself into the situation.” She put her finger to her lips in a playful “don’t tell” gesture.

  “I’m betting this is all blown out of proportion and the guy won’t even call back. Thanks to the federal government, though, I got to come to town and see you!” Cole winked.

  “Sweet talker, like always. So, how you like San Francisco?”

  “Would it hurt your feelings if I said I loved it?” Cole smiled with a little embarrassment.

  “A little, but I am sure happy for you. Got a lady yet?” Olajean asked coyly.

  “Just you.” Cole said as he heard a door open down the hall. “Just you
.”

  The man at the end of the hall was pacing and speaking into a cell phone. As Cole and Olajean approached, he gave them a nod and motioned them to the door.

  “That’s the FBI. Ain’t he pretty?” Olajean whispered.

  “Lovely,” Cole smirked.

  The small conference room seemed engulfed in electronic equipment. The long walnut table in the center was a jumble of wires, speakers, and briefcase-sized cases opened to reveal banks of lights and switches. At the end of the table, looking like a relic from a bygone era, sat a single beige telephone. Attached to the handset was a little black suction cup and a wire tailing off into the electronic switchbox. Two men who were intensely checking and testing the equipment didn’t look up as Olajean and Cole entered the room. Mark Roberson stood by the window reading the day’s edition of the Sentinel.

  “Hello, Cole.”

  “How are you, Mark?”

  “Anxious would be the best word, I guess.” Roberson folded the paper and tossed it onto the chair. “Have you met Agent Washington?”

  “Saw him in the hall,” Cole answered.

  “Nice guy. Too nice, kind of makes me nervous.”

  “He can be nice to me all he wants,” chimed in Olajean.

  The door opened, and Special Agent Carter Washington entered the room. He wore a dark blue suit, white shirt, dark tie, and a wide smile—but his eyes told another story.

  “Good morning. I’m Carter Washington.” He extended his hand to Cole.

  “Hello. Looks like we might have enough equipment to do the job here.”

  “Can’t be too careful.” Carter rolled his eyes and looked toward the technicians. “They’ll make sure we get everything we need and then some.”

  “AgentWashingtoniswhatweliketocall‘technophobic.’” One of the men working on the wires did a mock imitation of Washington’s rolling of the eyes. “But he’s always pleased with the results, don’t let him fool you.”

  “Here’s what’s going to happen. When the call comes in, all this equipment will kick on and we’ll record and trace the call. It’s not like the movies. There’s no need to stall the caller. What I do want you to do is, get as much information from the caller as you can. I’ll be listening, and we can work together to answer anything you’re not sure about. Don’t give the caller any personal information. My hunch is that you won’t get the chance to say much. This guy appears to be a talker and has some demands and ideas he wants to deliver through you.”

  “So, now we hurry up and wait,” Cole said dryly.

  For the next few minutes, Cole entertained Olajean with stories of his new life in San Francisco, his growing relationship with Erin, and all about Jenny, complete with pictures. Every time he tried to ask about Olajean’s family and what was going on in her life, she would answer him with another question about his work or his family. Cole was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the one-sided news update. He was about to ask why she was being so evasive when Agent Washington interrupted their conversation.

  “We’re going to put through a test call to make sure all systems are ‘go.’ Please answer on the third ring.”

  The phone rang with an irritating jangling and clanging. Once, twice—and on the third ring, Cole picked up and said his name. There was an almost faint buzzing tone on the other end of the line.

  “Will he hear that noise?” Cole frowned.

  “Hold on.”

  The tone grew louder then faded away.

  “How’s that?”

  “Better. It’s gone. Good,” Cole said as he strained to listen.

  “We’re good to go, Wash,” the technician said from behind a panel of pulsing digital lights.

  Mark Roberson stood and nodded at Washington. “This is where we disappear, Olajean.”

  Olajean glanced at Cole, who just lifted his eyebrows and smiled slightly. As Roberson and Olajean moved toward the door, two of the three technicians joined them. As they moved into the hall, Tom Harris entered the room.

  “Where you been?” asked Cole.

  “I peeked in earlier. Too crowded for me. I’ve been out on the bench by the window. We all set in here?”

  “Three minutes and counting. Sounds like NASA.” Washington began, “Houston, we’ve got a problem.” He imitated the fuzzy crackling voice from space then shrugged. “Nervous energy.”

  “Whew! I thought you were trying new stand-up material on us.” Cole made an exaggerated gesture of wiping his brow to lighten the tension in the room.

  The jangling of the phone broke through their nervous laughter. Cole looked at Washington, and Harris stood up. The second ring sounded even louder than the first. As the third ring sounded, Washington nodded at Cole, who picked up the phone.

  “Cole Sage.”

  “August 19, 1984, you know what you said?”

  “I can’t tell you what I said yesterday.”

  There was a long moment before the voice on the other end of the line said, “‘The heroes of the ’60s Revolution are gone and forgotten.’”

  “Did I?”

  “You said they did nothing that mattered in the end.”

  “Did they?”

  “Theirs was a new vision and a new day. That vision is now reborn in me.”

  “Who are you?” Cole asked, as if expecting a name he knew.

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “You know, there are six things we get whenever we do a story. Day one of journalism class: Who, What, When, Why, Where and How. You seem to think you have the what. I need to know the who, or nothing else matters.”

  “I’ll give you another ‘what.’” The caller paused. “And a ‘when.’ Then I’ll call back tomorrow. Perhaps then you won’t think you’re so cute and clever. What? A bomb. When? Tonight.”

  The line went dead. Washington clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, laid the headset on the table, and crossed to the windows. Cole hung up the phone and ran his hand across his mouth.

  “That didn’t go so well,” Cole said after several long moments.

  “I got it all. Cell phone. Number belongs to Hector Armandiaz in LA.” The technician waved a notepad and smiled.

  Carter Washington stood perfectly still, looking out the window. Suddenly, he threw his hands behind his head and began twisting from the waist. He did several repetitions of this movement and then bent to touch the tips of his fingers to his toes. He then put his hands on his hips and bent backward in an arching posture. He held this position for several seconds then blew out his breath in several large puffs.

  “Well, Mr. Sage, we do indeed have a problem.” Washington pursed his lips and bit his bottom lip.

  “I thought if I kept it light, I wouldn’t get nervous. Maybe I should have taken a different approach.” Cole was feeling the shock of the caller’s threat.

  “Shoulda, coulda, woulda. An FBI agent’s three worst enemies. You can look at things that way, or you can go nuts. So, what have we got?”

  “You guys are killin’ me, here.” Tom Harris spoke at last.

  “He started with the ’60s Heroes of the Revolution thing,” Cole offered. “We are going to have to research that one. I don’t remember it at all. What’d he say? 1984?”

  “August 19,” Washington said. “He was the rebirth of the ‘new vision’ and, yeah, a new day. There was a new vision and a new day. ‘That vision is now reborn in me.’” He read from his notebook.

  “Then the bomb. He said tonight,” Cole said.

  The theme from Sesame Street brightly whistled from a technician’s cell phone. “My kids like it,” he said, flipping open the phone. “Nutting. That right? How long? Figures. He’s right here. I’ll let him know.” Nutting flipped the cell closed. “LA. The guy the cell phone belongs to has gone missing. That is, the son of the guy who pays the bill has gone missing. Kid didn’t come home about three nights ago, and nobody has heard from him since. Police are treating it as a missing person.”

  “Where did the call
come from?” Harris asked.

  “Still working on that, but it appears to have come from the Lakeshore area. We’ll have it pinpointed in a couple of minutes,” Nutting replied.

  “This is the second call and the second threat of a bomb. As cold as it sounds, we have nothing until it’s set off. My feeling is that he’s serious. We may be looking at the worst. He said he would call back tomorrow. So, we wait.” Washington closed his notebook and slipped it into his inside jacket pocket.

  “That’s it?” Cole asked with a hint of exasperation in his voice.

  “What is it you want me to say?”

  “I don’t know but—” Cole stopped, realizing he didn’t know the answer.

  “Look, this guy is scary, real scary, and I’d have liked nothing better than to have traced the call to a house on the east side, driven over and arrested him for making terrorist threats. But that’s not going to happen. At least not today. So, we need to keep our heads, get on with whatever we need to do, and meet back here tomorrow. My guess is he’ll call at noon again. So, unless we got something else to talk about, I suggest we get about our business.”

  “I say we go watch the Cubbies lose and eat a couple hot dogs. And I’ll volunteer to drink Cole’s share of the beer.” Harris held open the door and gestured for everyone to exit the conference room.

  “Now, that sounds like a reasonable plan.” Washington smiled and gave Harris an approving nod.

  “I’m going to the morgue and see what I wrote in August of ’84 that has this guy so fired up.” Cole followed Washington out the door.

  “What about the Cubbies?” Harris said to Cole’s back. “Game starts in an hour!”

  “Come get me in 30 minutes if I’m not back before. Meet you in Mark’s office.”

  “It’s a Family Night Double Header!” Harris yelled toward the closing elevator doors.

  * * * * *

  Cole gently rubbed the photocopy between his thumbs and index fingers. He read and re-read the story written so many years ago, while waiting for Tom Harris to return from the snack bar. It was his first real job stateside, just back from his posting in Thailand and looking to make a name for himself. The article raised a few eyebrows but quickly disappeared with the news of the Cubs’ 9 to 6 win over the Cincinnati Reds.