Cellar Full of Cole: A Cole Sage Mystery #2 Page 16

  Still, with all the variations he came up with and all the evaluations he did, the fact remained that the door could open at any moment, and Terry could just kill him.

  What was the point of keeping him prisoner? Did Terry panic after hitting him? Maybe it was like a hit-and-run driver. Running away seems a good idea at the moment of panic but later becomes its own prison of fear and guilt. Terry hit him, knocked him out, and perhaps at first feared that he had killed him. Hide the body. The trouble is the body is alive. Ignore it and the problem doesn’t exist.

  If it was Monday, as Cole surmised, he was due at the Chronicle. Erin and Ben would have expected a call. Chris would have no doubt checked in to see how he liked his house. Chuck Waddell would expect him to pop into his office and report for his first day on the job. They would all have tried to call his cell.

  Cole spent hours alone in the dark. Pain gave way to fear and fear to anger. His days and nights were completely jumbled. Sleep became an immeasurable blur. The lump on the back of his head was almost gone, and the blinding bursts of pain were now a dull ache. The terror of waking in total darkness eased as the hours passed, and he paced through the blackness measuring and touching and memorizing every inch of his basement confines. He was cold, and his joints and muscles ached from the hard damp surfaces on which he was forced to recline. He sat on the workbench with his knees pulled up under his chin. He tried to utilize the heat given off by the hot water heater, but its position in the room made close proximity difficult at best. He stood for a time with his back to the tank, but his legs soon grew too tired to stand any longer. The best position he found to rest was in a curled fetal position on the workbench, a roll of burlap bags under his head and covered by those remaining. This too was only a brief comfort because of his inability to stretch out.

  The sound of footsteps above him, at first a thing of interest and alarm, now made him angry. Cole found the stairs and made his way up to the cellar door. He pounded the door with his fist and screamed.

  “Kosciuszko! Let me out of here! You hear me! People are looking for me by now. You’re only digging a deeper hole for yourself! Let me out!” Cole pounded again even harder.

  Before he could move away, the heavy door flew open hard, hitting him and knocking him off balance. The force of the door sent him, arms flailing, backward off the small landing at the top of the stairs. He slid and stumbled down the first two steps, then lost his balance completely, falling backwards. He grabbed for a spindle but couldn’t get a tight enough grip to stop his fall. He rolled and kicked out hard with his right foot and caught a spindle. A sharp pain shot through the top of his foot, but it broke his fall. He grabbed a spindle with his left hand. Three steps from the floor, Cole rolled and scrambled to get to his feet. He could not let Terry reach him in a head-down position.

  “Stay the hell away from the door!” The voice from the top of the stairs was like thunder bouncing off the walls of the cellar. “No one is going to find you here. Even if they look, there is no evidence of your being here. You’re going to die alone and in the dark. If you touch the door again, I will add to the equation and make things a little more interesting for me and a hell of a lot more painful for you.” With that, the door slammed shut, and the cellar was cast back into darkness.

  * * *

  To his neighbors, Terry Kosciuszko was the “nut down the road,” “poor soul,” or “the crazy bastard that destroyed that great little farm.” When he strung razor wire at the top of the fence around his place, most saw it as evidence of how crazy he was. When he knocked down the barns and buildings, there were a few comments. By that time, neighbors were getting used to his strange behavior. So, when a couple sheriffs’ cars were seen parked at the house, no one was surprised.

  The sight of “Crazy Kosciuszko” tooling around the farm on his backhoe, digging holes or running trenches to nowhere was so commonplace that no one paid any attention to the huge hole he was digging in the back end of his property. There were lots of piles of dirt and lots of holes dug all over the place. Usually, he would use the big angle blade on the front of the tractor to bulldoze the dirt back in within a few days. No explanation sought or expected.

  What none of the neighbors saw or would ever have imagined was that the swimming pool size crater was going to be the resting place for Cole’s rental car. Late Sunday evening, Terry drove the red Corolla to the pit. He methodically removed the headlights, brake lights, and backup lights from the car. It only took two web pages and three blogs before he found instructions on how to disconnect the GPS in the car. By the dark of the moon, Terry Kosciuszko rolled the red Toyota Corolla into the pit.

  First thing the next morning, after shoving a few piles around on the front of the property, and filling in a long trench, Terry leveled the huge mound of dirt over the car. To prevent settling, he ran over the area several times, adding more and more soil. Satisfied that the ground above the car was packed and solid, Terry ran the plow over the whole back section of the farm. By lunchtime, the rental car completely disappeared and the back section of the farm looked ready to plant.

  * * *

  Monday morning, Tom Harris began making calls before he got to his office. Olajean Baker was nursing a bad cold and feeling too sick to make much out of Harris’s call. She hadn’t heard from Cole yet and didn’t expect to for several days. She teased Harris a bit about “missing Cole already” but cut the call short when her phone lines started lighting up.

  The airlines were a dead end. Cole did not check in, did not cancel or reschedule his flight. A check of the major airport car rental companies was more productive. Budget verified that Cole Sage rented a car from their downtown lot and would be returning the vehicle to the airport. As of nine o’clock, however, the Toyota Corolla had not been returned.

  The two deputies Harris spoke with at the Will County Sheriff’s Department were friendly and courteous but skittish about offering any information about Terry Kosciuszko. Harris was transferred to a lieutenant with no promise he would be more helpful.

  “Martinelli.”

  “Good morning, this is Tom Harris, Chicago PD.”

  “What can I do for you?” The voice was friendly but all business.

  “We have a missing person who has a connection to your boy Terry Kosciuszko.”

  “This one a pervert, too?” Martinelli’s tone turned sour.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Kosciuszko’s a pedophile. We could have got him on a major kiddy porn bust, but the two limp dicks I sent out there didn’t read him rights, so we come up with nothing”

  “The missing person is a newspaperman, writes for the Sentinel. It seems he has a connection to the woman Kosciuszko attacked.

  “What’s the name?”

  “Cole Sage.” Harris felt a chill. There was a strange finality to giving Cole’s name.

  “Look, Harris, is it? We came up looking pretty stupid on our last outing with this guy and, frankly, my boss would have fired the bunch of us if it wouldn’t have emptied the department. We are giving him a wide berth in hopes of nailing him on a variety of charges. What is it you think we can do for you? We’re sure as hell not going to search his house, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”

  “No, no nothing like that.” Harris realized he would get little if anything from Martinelli. “Maybe a drive-by? Sage was last known to be driving a red ‘09 Corolla, tag number ML938G. If you could have your people keep an eye out, it would be a great help. From what I hear, this guy’s pretty nasty.”

  “Yeah, if you’re a woman or a little kid. I’ll have my guy in that area take a peek. Don’t hold your breath. He’s keeping a real low profile.”

  “Thanks, I’ll check back in a day or two.” Harris ended the call just as his other line rang. A Yellow Cab driver was found in an alley stabbed to death and underneath his cab. The search for Cole would have to wait awhile.

  NINETEEN

  Cole ran his fingers over the grooves he notched int
o the edge of the workbench. Seven notches in all since he began keeping track. The total was probably more like nine days in the cellar but he wasn’t sure. His routine was pretty much set. The sound of Terry Kosciuszko stomping around in the kitchen signaled the beginning of a new day, or perhaps Cole imagined once or twice the end and it was the evening meal he heard. Once awake, Cole did 100 jumping jacks and as many sit-ups as he could stand.

  His first meal of the day was the liquid from whatever jar he blindly chose from the cabinet. Sometimes he was pleased with the thick sweetness of fruit syrup and other times surprised and disappointed by either the salty tomato taste of chutney, a jar of stewed tomatoes, or the thin, watery taste of string bean juice.

  The pail was reaching the three-quarter mark, and the smell was beginning to reach the farthest corners of the cellar. He kept his latrine covered with three of the dirty burlap bags, but the absence of fresh air left the stench to hover long after its use.

  Occupying his mind was Cole’s greatest challenge. His fear of dying long ago dulled into an occasional wave of depression. He felt strong and agile from his exercise. His lack of calories reduced his girth by several inches already. But his mind began to play tricks on him. Several times a day, he found himself feeling his eyelids. He became so used to the dark, he couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed. Except for the few hours of daylight that came from under the door—and then only if he was in the right spot in the room—Cole was in total and complete darkness. Then on what he figured was his sixth day in the darkness, he saw an old enemy walking towards him.

  At first Cole thought he was dreaming. The small Cambodian peasant, carrying a Chinese Type 56 SKS rifle, coming at him from across the room brought on such a panic that Cole swung wildly at him with a shelving board. The sight of Phoh, the guard at the Cambodian rebel camp where he had been held prisoner, reduced Cole to a shuddering, crying heap on the floor.

  Near the end of his time in Southeast Asia, Cole went into the Cambodian jungle with a small unit of Pol Pot’s Khmer Rouge regulars to see for himself the general’s claim that the people in the back country were well served and protected by his men. It was anything but true. The second day of patrolling the hilly Tinh Bien district, the local resistance fighters had ambushed the patrol, killing everyone but Cole and the ranking officer. Lieutenant Him was later beheaded as a warning to Cole and the other prisoners in the camp that defiance would not be tolerated.

  The guards were all hill people who watched as their families and, in some cases, entire villages were slaughtered by the Khmer Rouge. The appearance of a Westerner with the despised Khmer only reinforced their belief that the World was blind to their plight. In the three weeks he was held in the camp, Cole was beaten repeatedly and constantly subjected to interrogation. The man he saw coming through the darkness was the worst of the guards. He took great delight in urinating on Cole through the bamboo cage where he was held. This small man would wake the prisoner at all times of the night with jabs from the long thin bamboo sticks that he sharpened to long thin spikes as he sat crouched and watching hour after hour.

  Cole was held for nearly a month before Colonel Khoeun and his men raided the camp and freed Cole and 29 other prisoners. The rebels who were not killed outright were forced to watch as Khoeun’s men systematically and methodically murdered all the women and children in the camp and surrounding area. As soon as Cole was well enough to travel, he returned to Thailand and wrote the story on Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge that won him his Pulitzer Prize. The return of the guard he called Rat Eyes was a nightmare Cole repressed for nearly twenty-five years. The shock of having hallucinations in the dark was a turning point in Cole’s struggle to stay alive.

  From that day on, Cole stayed focused and kept his mind busy. No more hours of staring into the dark. No more surrendering to the void. Cole was determined to exercise and condition his mind the way he conditioned his body. Along with his morning exercises, Cole began a time of prayer and meditation.

  As he cooled down from his workout, he would pray for his family. For Erin to not be greatly pained by his disappearance; for Ben, that he would be kind and understanding with Erin, and for him to not give up hope. He prayed for his granddaughter Jenny, that she would grow up to be a strong, smart woman and that she would be a person that her grandmother would have been proud of. Cole prayed that God would help him find a way out of his captivity. He was not one given to prayer on a regular basis. In his prayer time, he often thought of Ellie. He believed that she was in heaven and wanted to pray that she was waiting for him, but was afraid that God would not honor such a selfish request. To keep from asking to be taken to heaven to be with Ellie, Cole would slip in the phrase from his childhood prayers, “If I should die before I wake I pray the Lord my soul to take.” He felt childish and foolish for repeating those lines, especially since he had no intention of dying, but he wanted to have the peace that if anything happened to him, he would be reunited a second time with his beloved Ellie.

  Cole often asked God to forgive him for only praying when he was in trouble or in pain. Cole struggled to remember all the words to the Lord’s Prayer but would try interjecting phrases as they came to him. He always ended his time of prayer with “Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven”. He couldn’t tell how long he prayed each day, but he seemed to always know when he was done. He referred to these times as his “chats with God.”

  Hour after hour, Cole tried to occupy his mind with word games and memory tests. Each day, Cole would do three ABC lists. He would choose a topic, and then come up with one item for each letter of the alphabet. At first, they were relatively easy: shopping lists at the grocery store or mall, animals, famous people, and then they moved to more difficult subjects such as diseases, trees and plants, and nations of the world. His favorite was to list rock-and-roll bands in alphabetical order, movie stars, and movies. Sometimes, he would do it twice a day. Abba, Boston, Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Doors, Eagles, and always ending in either ZZ Top or Zappa. The trick was to come up with different bands for the rest of the alphabet. Aerosmith, Badfinger, Chicago. The trick was to not repeat his lists.

  Cole actually enjoyed his other way to occupy his day. He referred to it as his “Memory Theatre.” He would try to get as comfortable as possible leaning back against a wall or sitting on the workbench with his burlap pillow behind his back. The next hour or so would be spent replaying the memory of a special event or time in his life he cherished. He especially enjoyed reviewing his time with Ellie.

  In the darkness, the images and memories played out just like movies on a screen. There were no distractions, no sounds, and no noises to disrupt Cole’s thoughts. He saw clearly and vividly Ellie’s room in the Eastwood Manor convalescent hospital. He saw her expression the first time he walked into her room. He relived their time together, making up for all the years apart, word by word, as best he could remember. Lying next to her on the bed and holding her in his arms as she slept. He could see her face and her eyes as he stared into the darkness, and he could hear her voice in his mind. Sometimes she said the sweet things she said to him long ago, and sometimes she spoke to him telling him not to give up hope. He could switch at will from their talks together as she was when he found her again to a time when they were young and she was healthy.

  Some of the memories he watched were bittersweet. Since Cole was acting as the director of his “Memory Theater,” he spliced together a memory of his life without Ellie with one of their long talks and he imagined he was telling her what happened.

  On a warm day several years before they were reunited, Cole was eating his lunch in the park. Earlier in the day, he tried to find a phone number he shoved into his near bursting wallet, with no success. So, he propped open his Burger King bag and was sorting and tossing the outdated, unidentifiable and irrelevant contents of his wallet. As he sorted, tossed, and balanced the various scraps of paper receipts and notes, he came across the photo he kept of Ellie. The p
icture, faded and tattered, was of the beautiful girl standing on a rock with the Pacific Ocean behind her. It had been around the world and back. Through a dozen wallets, Cole carried the picture and, on those occasions where his sadness and longing for her overcame him, he would take the old photograph out and gaze on the features he knew so well.

  It was spring, a time of rebirth and renewal. Cole was feeling bitter, angry, and alone. He looked at the girl in the picture and realized he was getting old. She was gone and would never return. He didn’t even know where she was. Cole crumpled the lunch sack, stuck his wallet back in his pocket, and stood up.

  Not far from where he stood, a crew of gardeners from the Parks Department was planting rose bushes. Cole walked to where they were working and, standing at the edge of a hole ready for a rose bush, he kissed the picture and dropped it in the hole just ahead of the burlap-wrapped roots the gardener firmly pressed into the hole. The man looked up quizzically at Cole.

  “A funeral for old dreams. Where better than at the root of a rose?” Cole shrugged.

  “Poetic. Now, you want to move back? You’re standing on my dirt.”

  Cole chuckled at the memory in the dark and could have sworn he heard Ellie laugh, too.

  The creaking of the floor above brought him back to the cellar and the reality of the dark prison that was his living nightmare.

  TWENTY

  It had been fifteen days since Ben had first called Tom Harris. It was the third Sunday and the first time Ben didn’t call for an update. There was no news and nothing to report on any of his calls. Cole Sage had simply disappeared. The Will County Sheriff’s Department called back after a couple of days. Terry Kosciuszko evidently left town. Nobody had seen him for at least two weeks, and they were all the happier for it.