Cellar Full of Cole: A Cole Sage Mystery #2 Read online

  The car rental company was a bit red in the face to admit they didn’t turn on the GPS in their rental cars until they were overdue. In the case of Cole’s car, somebody must have forgotten to activate it, so there was no signal.

  “Stuff like this happens all the time. Sometimes people disconnect them because they think it affects the mileage, or they think we’re watching or will report them to their spouse. People are weird.” The all-smiles-and-sunshine Airport Rental representative giggled. “We charge $200 if we catch them. But we usually don’t.”

  Harris was at a loss. Cole’s credit cards and bank accounts didn’t show any activity. The Sentinel ran a front-page story with a photo of Cole about his disappearance. The phone lit up like Roman Candles for the first 24 hours, then nothing. The tip line recording filled up with “I will miss Sage, I loved his writing” running four-to-one over “I hate that guy, I hope he’s dead.” A few tips sounded promising but turned up only heavier or balder versions for Cole on their way to work, or living in the same house in the same neighborhood they lived in for twenty years. The tips faded away along with Tom Harris’s hopes of finding his friend alive.

  * * *

  “Baby, baby, can’t you hear my heart beat,” Cole sang quietly.

  Herman’s Hermits Greatest Hits was on the docket for today. Cole worked his way through his rock-and-roll ABC list artist by artist, singing as many of their songs as he could remember. Abba was impossible because he really couldn’t remember any Abba song except “Dancing Queen”, so he switched to the Allman Brothers. “Whipping Post” was infused with Cole’s impersonation of Duane or Dickie Betts’ extended guitar solos.

  Cole became a student of the sounds of the house above him. Even in the darkness and, for the most part, complete silence, he could hear little subtle changes in the structure above. The vibration of the pipes when a toilet flushed or a shower ran. The creaking of the walls at night as the house cooled. The almost inaudible poof of the pilot light on the hot water heater, detected even with the vibration of the shower water running. Footsteps, scooting of chairs, all made their special sounds.

  The sounds were different for almost a week, six days since Cole became aware of the changes. No toilet flushes, no showers, only what he believed to be daylight under the door. Terry Kosciuszko was not in the house. Two days earlier, Cole was so sure Terry was gone that he pounded on the door. There was no response. With each day of a quiet house, Cole grew more concerned that he had been abandoned. The jars of canned goods were beginning to run low. Cole gave up the pail toilet for all but bowel movements, and he began peeing in the empty Mason jars. The lids helped to contain some of the smell. He dreaded the day he would have to try emptying the pail into the jars. Then again, he hoped he would live that long.

  Day fifteen, Cole fell asleep humming “Devil or Angel.” He couldn’t even attempt Uriah Heep and went straight to Bobby Vee. The sound in the distance, at first, played with the flow of his dream. He was walking along a dark street, following a small dog, when he turned the corner and was standing on the bank of a river. Even asleep, the change made no sense. Cole rolled over and bolted wide awake. The sound in his dream was the shower. Kosciuszko was back!

  Cole lay still, listening to the low humming vibration of the pipes. What time was it? Cole stood and moved to where he should have been able to see light under the door. The cellar was black. It was nighttime. The peace Cole felt for almost a week was shattered. The reality of his situation once again roared in his head. He made his way across the floor to the hot water heater. The surface of the fiberglass pad on the tank was smooth and slightly warm under Cole’s hand.

  The sound of water filling the tank was much louder than Cole ever heard it before. The thick insulation dampened the sound coming from behind the tank. Cole slid his hand around to the back of the tank and upward. The first pipe he felt was cold to the touch. The pipe below was hot and Cole could not leave his hand on it. Tapping in quick patting motions, he followed the pipe upward to where it went into the wall. Reversing the path, he followed the pipe to where it entered the top of the hot water heater. Cole moved his hand slowly and in a waving motion until he felt the cold, ridged surface of the gas line. He was suddenly struck with an idea.

  The farm was far beyond the city limits and in Cole’s mind, there was no way that gas lines would run this far out in the country. The line coming into the hot water heater had to be propane or butane.

  Cole stood, hands at his sides, staring through the darkness at the hot water heater.

  “What a stupid name. ‘Hot water heater.’ It doesn’t heat hot water; it heats cold water.” Cole’s voice was calm and directed at the padded cylinder in front of him.

  He ran his hand down the front of the tank until he felt a bulge under the pad. He pulled at the padding until he moved it above the bulging area. It was a faucet, with a small round handle; it was a release valve that was supposed to be used to flush the tank. No one ever did it, though, so the bottom of the tank filled with sludge and hard water deposits, making it harder and harder to heat the water and less energy efficient. Out of sight, out of mind, Cole thought.

  He slowly twisted the handle of the faucet. It was stiff and probably had never been turned. As the handle gave way, the faucet spit blasts of hot liquid from the spigot. Cole quickly turned it off. He crouched and felt the floor under the faucet. Hot water mixed with a gritty, almost gummy solid. Cole laughed aloud.

  Cole found it hard to sleep and several times got up and paced back and forth, sometimes mumbling to himself. A plan was forming, a thought really, just a seed of an idea, but as he turned it, twisted it, and spun it around in his mind, he came to the conclusion that it just might be his salvation.

  The water heater combined two ingredients that simply didn’t mix. Water quenches fire, but the butane flame contained by the tank burned hot. Water would protect him and the fire would save him.

  Cole tried to keep to his daily regimen, but the excitement of his plan made it difficult. He completed his exercises, and his prayers were mostly beseeching the Almighty to allow his plan to work. His ABC list consisted of songs that motivated him. He jumped around a lot and finally realized he could only think of a dozen or so. As he paced and thought through his plan, he sang:

  I see you got your fist out,

  Say your peace and get out.

  I guess I get the gist of it, but it’s all right.

  Sorry that you feel that way,

  the only thing there is to say

  is every silver lining’s got a touch of grey.

  I will get by. I will get by. I will get by.

  I will survive.

  Though he never considered himself a Deadhead, Cole was a big fan. He pictured the band on stage, tie-dye everywhere, and Jerry Garcia smiling out at him.

  “Right, Jerry, I will survive!” Cole spun where he stood. “I will survive.”

  The pipes on the water heater cooled a bit, and the sounds above him died way. Cole was reaching behind the water heater, feeling the pipes and finding where they entered the wall when he heard footsteps above.

  The door latches clicked and a wide swath of light crossed the floor of the cellar. Cole threw his hands over his eyes and squinted as he tried to peek through the slits between his fingers.

  “Miss me?” the voice above him boomed. “Jeez, what the hell is that smell? You shit yourself?” Kosciuszko laughed. “Well, it won’t be long now and all your needs for bodily function will be over.”

  There was a pause and Cole heard the low groan of the wooden steps as Terry came into the cellar. “Hey, where are you? You dead?”

  Cole made his way along the wall and to the corner of the room and sat against the wall in the dark, away from the light. Suddenly a beam of light began flashing and jumping around the walls and floor. Moments later the light from a flashlight landed on Cole.

  “You look like hell, newspaper hero.” Terry laughed.

  Cole extended his mi
ddle finger to the light and sang softly:

  You can stand me up at the gates of Hell

  But I won’t back down.

  Gonna stand my ground,

  Won’t be turned around,

  And I’ll keep this world from dragging me down.

  “A last act of defiance? How fitting from the defender of the hopeless. Well, Mr. Wonderful, it won’t be long now. Your ugly ass will be food for the worms.” The light went out, the door slammed, and the sound of Kosciuszko’s voice was silenced.

  “You’re right, fat boy, it won’t be long now.”

  The boards that leaned against the wall were the only things keeping Cole from putting his plan into action. He needed to figure out a way to split a board lengthwise. He struck a board repeatedly on the corner of the workbench but succeeded only in breaking it in half. In desperation, Cole took one of the four remaining emergency flares and lit it and set it in an empty Mason jar. He slowly passed the board over the flame as close to the center of the board as possible.

  As the flare burned down, inch-by-inch, foot-by-foot, Cole let the intense heat burn a path along the board. Back and forth, he slowly let the flame do the work of turning the shelf board into two long pieces divided by an inch-wide rut of charcoal. When the flare reached the halfway point, Cole flipped the board over and let the flame do its work on the reverse side of the wood. As the flare began to sputter to a finish, the end of the board was placed over the flare for the last bit of fire.

  Cole stood once again in the darkness, the sweet smell of burning wood filling the cellar. He waved the shelf board through the air and watched the last orange specks of burning wood expand and die. He climbed up onto the workbench and carefully positioned the board along the edge. When Cole was certain the burned rut was exactly halfway extended over the edge, Cole stomped the overhanging portion of the board with all his might.

  The sound of splitting wood was like a sweet song. Cole took a deep breath and stomped again. This time, he felt the wood give way. Cole hopped down from the bench and took the board in both hands, pushing the center against the workbench’s sharp corner. The wood cracked and split more and more until it finally broke in two.

  With his back against the far wall of the cellar, Cole ran his hand over the splintery edge of the split board. His plan to split the board worked exactly as expected. Now he would wait for the sound of the shower running.

  To pass the time, Cole did his daily program of exercise, meditation, and memory games, but the time still seemed to crawl by. He sang as many songs about trains as he could remember. He imagined he was sitting in a boxcar door watching the Ohio Valley roll by. The farmland, rivers, and tall trees swaying in the breeze calmed his spirit. He hummed and sang “Hobo’s Lullaby” until he drifted to sleep, hugging his split shelving board, the sweet smell of burned pine in his nostrils.

  The sound of footsteps overhead woke Cole with a start. He heard the sound of water running, but it was the sink in the kitchen, not the shower.

  “Go shower, you sweaty pig,” Cole growled as he sat up and leaned against the wall. He picked up the split board and tried to think how to best use it if Kosciuszko were to come into the cellar. That wasn’t going to be necessary, though. Because within a few minutes, the footsteps went away and the soft hum of the water running in the shower began. Cole went to the water heater and started stripping off the fiberglass insulation blanket. With an upward snap of the cover, he exposed the flame that heated the water. He waited and listened for the shower to be turned off. He walked back across the cellar and moved the box of flares to the workbench.

  The pipe gave a slight jerk and a shudder, and the sound of water leaving the water heater stopped, leaving only the sound of the water refilling the tank. Cole paced and counted, trying to determine how many minutes passed. His counting stopped when he heard footsteps again overhead. He was sure Terry was standing at the door. Cole’s heart pounded in his chest. He passed the burned shelf board from one hand to the other. He tried to slip behind the stair rail, thinking he could trip Kosciuszko if he tried to enter the cellar. For a time, there was no sound at all, and then the footsteps moved away from the door and could no longer be heard.

  Five minutes or more passed after the footsteps went away. Cole felt for the shut-off valve that controlled the gas flow into the water heater and turned it slowly. For an instant the flame got taller; he reversed the rotation of the valve and the blue flame danced until it disappeared. Then the pilot light flickered and died.

  Cole turned the handle of the faucet until it was wide open. The hot water and sludge sputtered and spit, then turned to a steady stream of scalding water. Cole moved back so as not to get burned. After several minutes, he moved toward the water heater. The sound of water splashing against water signaled the sludge flushed out and there was a steady stream of clean water. His shoes splashed as he moved, and he could feel the heat of the water through his soles. He tentatively reached for the water; it was cold.

  There was no sound above him. He moved the fiberglass side of the pad under the faucet to help dull the sound of the splashing water. Cole moved to the workbench and sat waiting for the water level to rise. He would reach down to the water with his burned shelf board from time to time to see if he could get any sense for how quickly the water was rising. In the cellar, there was nowhere for the water to drain, and the only question was how long it would take to reach a substantial level.

  “How high’s the water, Momma? Six feet high and risin’,” Cole sang in a baritone impersonation of Johnny Cash. “How high’s the water, Papa? Six feet high and risin’.”

  And the water did rise. Inch by inch, the sound of the water hitting water changed and Cole waited. The feel of the water changed, too. Cole’s board began to move slower through the water as the depth and resistance grew.

  Minute by minute and hour by hour, the water continued to rise until he heard the sound of water hitting water disappear. The water level reached the faucet. It was time.

  Cole took the last three flares and two burlap bags and jumped down from the bench and into the water. The water in the cellar was just above his knees and Cole shuddered with the chill. He moved across the room to the water heater. As he waded across the cellar floor, a flare slipped from his hand and into the water. He grabbed and splashed at the water but the flare was gone, either sinking or floating away in the darkness.

  The pipe, once so fiercely hot, was now cool enough for Cole to take in hand. Using it to pull himself up, Cole stood on the platform next to the water heater. He bent down and carefully removed the two flares. He felt the ceiling overhead and found the entry for the water pipes. With all his strength, he crouched and, putting his shoulder to the tank, shoved the water heater off the platform. The heavy metallic groan told Cole his plan was going to work. The pipes tore loose from the tank. Cole made his way to the stairs and laid the flare against the wall on a safe dry step. He turned and dipped the burlap bags into the water. He quickly moved to tuck the bags under the crack in the door.

  Cole returned to the water heater and, hugging it with both arms, he twisted and pulled the tank until he felt it break free from the pipes. Water sprayed from the pipe that fed water to the tank. An elbow and short section of pipe gave Cole a perfect way to twist the pipe enough to direct the flow of water away from him and the platform.

  Using his length of shelving board, he wedged it width-wise under the ridged gas line just above where it entered the tank. Using the tank as a fulcrum, Cole forced down the board until he felt a section of the copper tubing give way. The section of tubing split at the seam and Cole pushed down harder. It would not tear free. He felt the gas line and found the tear. He took the line on either side of the split and began bending it back and forth. Faster and faster, he flexed the tube. He felt it grow warm, then hot in his hand. Faster and faster, he flexed the metal and slowly he could feel it bend farther and farther until finally it broke in two.

  He was at the ha
lfway point. If Kosciuszko returned, Cole knew he was a dead man. Even so, he would not go without a fight. The end of the hot water return pipe had a small fitting still attached to it that Cole could not identify in the dark. Turning the cold water pipe was easy because of the elbow at the connection. Cole hoped and prayed the fitting would give him enough of a grasp to get the job done.

  “Lefty loosey, Righty tighty,” Cole said aloud as he gripped down on the fitting and began to turn.

  He could not budge the pipe. He tried again and again. Finally, in desperation, he shoved his middle finger into the end of the pipe and gripped the fitting tightly with the palm of his hand. He took a deep breath and, as he slowly exhaled, gripped and twisted the pipe with all his strength. He felt it give. Ever so slightly, but it moved. Again he inhaled and let his breath out slowly, concentrating on turning the pipe. It was free. Now, grasping the pipe higher up, he unscrewed it from whatever fitting held it up in the wall above.

  The last treads of the pipe unscrewed, and Cole felt it drop a bit. Gently he pulled the section of pipe from the ceiling. Cole felt for the hole left by the pipe. He felt air coming from the hole. He wasn’t sure, but there seemed to be a space above the hole. Cole took the pipe and shoved it back up into the ceiling. He moved it from side to side. There was at least a foot on the right and five or six inches to the left. He dropped the pipe into the water, then got the flares from the steps.

  With the cap removed from one of the flares, Cole gave the flare a twist. It did not light. Sparks flew and he twisted again and again, but the flare would not ignite. In a moment of anger, he threw the flare into the dark. Everything was riding on the fire the flare produced. Cole took the second and last flare in hand. He took a deep breath and twisted the cap. Instantly, a sharp pointed spear of light appeared. The flare fit into the hole in the ceiling with room to spare. Cole balanced the end of the flare on his index finger and with a sharp push shoved the flare up and through the hole and into the wall.