Heart of Cole Page 4

  “You really don’t want to go there. You won’t beat me, like you do her,” Cole said fiercely.

  Stevie jabbed the blade at Cole. Cole stepped back. The knife slashed through the air, to the left, and then the right. With each jab and thrust of the knife Cole stepped back. He felt his leg bump something behind him. He spun and grabbed a cushion off the back of the sofa.

  “I’m gonna gut you like a fish,” Stevie growled.

  “Are you serious? That’s the best you got?” Cole taunted, circling Stevie. “How about something like, ‘I’m going to slice you like cheap salami’ or ‘You ever heard steel hit bone?’ No, no I got it…’Prepare to be served tartar!’” Cole shot the cushion out toward the waving blade.

  “Slice him baby! Make him show some respect,” Natalie screamed.

  “Cole!” Hanna took Lindsey by the shoulders and moved toward the door.

  At that moment Stevie lunged full force at Cole. The cushion swallowed the knife blade to the hilt. Cole lifted and twisted the cushion. Without warning, Cole released his left hand and punched Stevie hard on the chin. He grabbed the cushion again with both hands and wrenched the knife from his hand. Cole threw the cushion towards the door.

  Stevie swung at Cole, but Cole pulled back and Stevie’s fist lightly grazed his cheek. Cole hit Stevie hard with a right jab and then a left. Stevie staggered and Cole hit him with a devastating right upper cut to the jaw, sending Stevie staggering backwards into the recliner. The worn-out old chair collapsed, leaving Stevie with his legs pointing at the ceiling.

  Cole walked over to the ridiculous site of Stevie struggling to right the chair. Cole put his foot on Stevie’s throat.

  “Different when you try to hit a man, huh? If I ever see a bruise on Lindsey, I’ll be back, and I’ll throw you out that window.”

  Stevie growled and grunted out some tough guy bravado, but Cole pressed harder.

  “I don’t think you’re listening.”

  Natalie rushed up behind Cole and hit him in the back of the neck. Without turning, he threw back his elbow and caught her square in the nose. She screamed and threw herself across the sofa.

  “You just better pray I never come back. Got it?” Cole took his foot from Stevie’s throat.

  “OK, OK,” Stevie gasped.

  As Cole turned and walked toward the door he looked at Lindsey’s grandmother. She smiled at Cole and from hands inconspicuously resting on the arm of her wheelchair, gave him two thumbs up.

  Cole bent down and pulled the knife from the cushion and opened the door. He placed the knife blade just above the center hinge and slammed the door hard as he jerked the handle backward snapping off the blade. He turned and threw the bladeless handle back at Stevie.

  When Cole got to the door at the bottom of the stairs Hanna and Lindsey were already at the car.

  “Well ladies, that was certainly an adventure.” Cole grinned and rubbed the knuckles of his right hand.

  “Are you OK?” Hanna asked.

  “Yeah, fine. Nothing a little ice won’t fix.”

  There’s blood on your hand,” Lindsey said.

  Cole chuckled. “Just a flesh wound.”

  “I had no idea you could…” Hanna began, but Cole cut her off.

  “There’s still some fire left in this old man. Just glad it didn’t take longer.” Cole winced as he opened and closed his right hand.

  “What are we gonna do with you?” Hanna said to Lindsey, as she opened the car door.

  “I’ll be fine. This kind of stuff happens all the time, really. Don’t worry. They’ll cool down in a while. I’ll just disappear for a bit.” Lindsey tried to be convincing but it didn’t work.

  “Under the circumstances, I think it might be a good idea if come home with me,” Hanna said.

  “Can I have a word with you?” Cole said to Hanna.

  The pair walked just out of hearing distance from Lindsey.

  “Are you nuts?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Hanna snapped.

  “You can’t just take a strange kid home with you,” Cole replied.

  “She needs help.”

  “So do a million other kids. Take a step back. She starts off with the mother of all attempted con-jobs. She lives in a cesspool with a couple of violent Tweakers. You’ve got a great heart, but we do not know this kid. Enough to help her, sure, but not enough to house her.”

  “You don’t think she’s a good kid?” Hanna questioned.

  “I’m not saying that. I’ll bet there are a half-dozen laws, violations, and restrictions you’re breaking by taking a minor into your home, without, I might add, the knowledge or consent of her guardian.” Cole cleared his throat. “Look, just don’t make any promises until we make a few calls, alright?”

  “I know you’re right, but the poor kid is a nuisance to them.” Hanna’s voice showed her emotion.

  “Kelly has a friend at Child Protection Services. I’ll call her and get the guy’s name and number. Is that fair?”

  “You’re the boss.” Hanna walked back to Lindsey.

  The two exchanged a few words, then, Lindsey turned and wandered up the street.

  “How soon does the next movie start?”

  The young man behind the thick glass was so focused on his cell phone texting he didn’t bother to look up.

  “Excuse me, when is the next movie starting?”

  “Six minutes, screen four, Midweek Morning Classics, five-fifty.” The texter-cum-ticket seller glanced at the computer screen for the time and then back down to his phone.

  A five-dollar bill was slipped under the glass. Moments later, a ticket lay in the metal tray. The young man didn’t notice he was shorted fifty cents, and never looked at the patron standing in front of him.

  The 1:50 showing on a Wednesday afternoon apparently wasn’t high on anyone’s list of must-do activities. Add to it, it was a screening of Alfred Hitchcock’s Rebecca, a dark 1940, gothic romance, and it didn’t have much of a chance for big ticket sales.

  Near the middle of the small screening room generously called a theater, in the center seat of the row, sat a man in a business suit, slouched down, and trying to appear incognito.

  “Looks like we’re the only ones who care about a classic,” the voice behind him offered.

  The businessman didn’t turn around to see who was speaking to him.

  “It’s a good place to hide.” The voice was thickly slurred and the smell of bourbon hung in the air.

  “From work or family?” asked the newly arrived patron.

  “Both.” The businessman rasped out a loud phlegmy cough. “The wife wants to go to Bermuda, the kids only make contact when they run out of money, and the tuition, my God, what am I, Donald Trump?”

  “What do you do?”

  “Sales, what else? You want to buy a copy machine?” The man in the business suit replied sarcastically as the lights went down.

  The heavy, faded, red and gold, art deco, curtain parted and a World War II era Pathé newsreel lit up a perfect square in the center of the screen. Seven minutes later, an explosion of Technicolor animation splashed across the screen. The room was illuminated enough for the salesman’s whiskey bottle to show clearly as he took a sip and screwed the cap back on.

  By the time the bells of the black-and-white Selznick Studios logo chimed out, the salesman’s head bobbed three times. He would either be asleep or passed out in a matter of moments. The opening scene of the film was so dark, any image was hard to make out. Female narration helped to identify the approaching gate on the screen. The salesman took another pull on his emptying bottle. This time he didn’t replace the cap.

  Up on the screen, a foggy path wound its way to a clearing and the sight of a large English manor house. The ice pick slipped easily out of the patron’s jacket sleeve in the darkness.

  Standing silently behind the salesman was death, but he neither saw nor felt the arm come down in the old theater. The tight fist grasping the ice pick felt t
he hair of the salesman as the thin spike pierced through the top of his skull all the way to the handle.

  “Now you have no more complaints,” the voice from behind the salesman whispered softly.

  A quick hard twist and the deed was done. The last thing the salesman saw was a chrysanthemum of light exploding in his brain and the voice of the film’s narrator saying “The moon hovered an instant like a dark hand before a face.”

  Everything in the salesman’s world ceased to matter. The whiskey bottle made a hollow clank on the floor that no one heard except the killer who glided out of the aisle and down to the musty curtain below the pale red exit sign to the right of the screen. Seconds later, the muted light of the alleyway next to the theater greeted the killer.

  At ten-thirty that evening, the killer was already tucked into bed and enjoying a good night’s sleep.

  The salesman’s body would not be found until after midnight when the theater closed for the night. A young man in a blue vest tried to wake the motionless body. When he couldn’t be roused, the young man called an ambulance. The police arrived a little after twelve-thirty, and agreed with the paramedic that the man, now identified as Kenneth Allan Dwyer of San Mateo, was definitely dead. It wasn’t long after that Mr. Dwyer’s wife was notified of his death.

  The next morning, the medical examiner would discover a hole in the top of Dwyer’s head, and his brain was scrambled.

  Kelly Mitchell sat on the wooden bench, twirled the combination on her lock, and opened the locker door. The chatter of women in the locker room drowned out her gasp as she stared at a long stemmed, red rose. Kelly sat motionless for a moment taking in the site of the rose sticking out from the back pocket of her jeans. She took the towel from around her head and squeezed her wet hair.

  “Oooh, secret admirer.” Claire Muir spoke from behind Kelly.

  Claire was in her late thirties and single. She and Kelly had hit it off instantly the first day of the “Pilates for Lunch” class. They laughed and joked their way through the class and even went to coffee a few times. Hanging out with Claire made Kelly feel a bit younger and she liked it.

  “I’m not so sure I like the idea of my locker opening so easily,” Kelly said.

  “Those old things are probably all set to the same combination,” Claire laughed. “Is anything missing?”

  “It doesn’t look like it.”

  “Good. It’s your turn to buy coffee. Have you got time?”

  Kelly took the rose out of the locker and examined it. “It is lovely. But it is kind of creepy don’t you think? I mean, there’s no one here but women.”

  “Didn’t you experiment in college? A drunk night with the girls that got out of hand?” Claire inquired.

  “Heaven’s, no!” Kelly exclaimed. “First off, I have never been drunk. I occasionally have wine with dinner, but never to the point of intoxication. Secondly, I have no interest or desire for women in that way.”

  “Then it must be from the janitor!” Claire laughed heartily at her own joke.

  The wind outside the gym was cool and refreshing. The two women walked the few yards to Cup O’ Heaven coffee shop in silence. The smell of freshly roasted coffee made Kelly breathe deeply and double her need for a large steaming mug. With their order placed, and Kelly paying the bill, they made their way to a seat by the window.

  “So, how is that fiancé of yours? What was his name, Carl?”

  “Cole, and he is wonderful,” Kelly said, holding up her engagement ring. “I just picked it up from being sized. What do you think?”

  “Gorgeous! It must be love,” Claire offered.

  “It truly is. I feel really blessed.”

  “You must have got the last good one out there.” Claire looked out the window.

  “Oh, I don’t think so. There are a lot of nice guys. You just have to look in the right place.”

  “I’ve turned over every rock from here to Berkeley looking for a guy. Every one of them has nothing but bugs and creepy crawlers under it.” Claire chuckled.

  “Like I said, you’ve got to know where to look. There are a lot of great guys at my church, waiting to meet a nice girl,” Kelly offered.

  “Oh, no. No church for me. I don’t believe in fairy stories.”

  “Here you go.” The barista set two steaming mugs on the table.

  Claire blew across the top of her mug and took a sip. “Yuck! What is this supposed to be?” Claire stood and charged the counter. Over the next minute, she berated, abused, and insulted the young woman behind the counter.

  Kelly stood and walked to the counter. “Claire, Claire!”

  Claire whirled around, “What!”

  “It is just a cup of coffee,” Kelly said softly.

  “Nobody can do anything right! Not even a stupid cup of coffee.” Claire’s anger burned red hot.

  “Go sit down. I’ll sort this out. Take a deep breath.”

  “Demand a refund. I am never coming back here.”

  “Yes, you will, you love this place. Just have a seat. Everything will be fine.”

  Claire stomped back to the table, mumbling and sputtering all the way.

  “I am so sorry about my friend. I’m so embarrassed. Please forgive her, she’s not normally like that.” Kelly tried her best to sooth the feelings of the barista.

  “Yes, she is.” The young woman shot back.

  Kelly frowned and said softly, “Is what?”

  “Like that. I’m going to ask the manager if we can refuse to serve her. She is such a bitch, and we all hate her. She disturbs our customers and just makes us crazy. That order was right. I did it myself knowing how she is.”

  “I am dreadfully sorry. I had no idea,” Kelly said humbly.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “No, but it reflects badly on me because I am with her. I feel bad.”

  “Thank you for trying to help, but she’s not worth it.” The young woman was kind but firm.

  Kelly went back and sat down at the table. Claire sat with her arms folded, her face still flushed with anger.

  “It wasn’t really the coffee was it?” Kelly began.

  “What do you mean?” Claire said sharply.

  “It was a cup of coffee. The order was wrong, or it didn’t taste right. The girl who made it wasn’t trying to poison you, didn’t insult you, she just brought you coffee.”

  “It was wrong,” Claire said defensively.

  “So is human trafficking, ISIS beheading Christians, mass murders, and the way the Giants have been playing.” Kelly smiled. “A cup of hot water and roasted bean grounds shouldn’t cause that kind of rage. So, it wasn’t really the coffee was it?”

  “I am just sick of nobody doing anything right.”

  “You are a strong, intelligent, attractive woman, with a good job. Why does that bother you so much?”

  “Why doesn’t stuff bother you? How do you always stay so cheerful? You never complain about anything, the damp towels in the gym, the fat lady that farts during yoga, anything!”

  “A lot of things bother me. The difference is I don’t let them overtake me. There are so many things in the world I have no control over. If I get angry or upset, who does it affect? Nobody but me, and the people around me. The thing that upsets me doesn’t change. There are too many good things to dwell on, so I push the things I can’t control out.” Kelly shrugged and took a sip of her coffee.

  “Yeah, but you don’t have to work.”

  “That’s right, because my husband, who I loved dearly, died. I would gladly trade all he left just to see him for a little while. But I can’t.

  “You have a fiancé now. You’re not lonely.”

  “I wasn’t before. I had family, friends, and wonderful neighbors. Cole was a part of God’s plan for my life I never saw coming.”

  “Oh, come on, Kelly, really. You really think some invisible, Santa in the sky, out of all the people on the earth, sees you? Do you know how silly that is?”

  “No sillier
than screaming at that poor girl behind the counter over a cup of coffee. I see it this way: everybody bets their lives that either God exists or he doesn’t. Even if there is a small chance that God exists, wouldn’t a rational person live as though He did? I mean, if God doesn’t exist, a person will have only given up a few fleeting, worldly pleasures. But, if He does, look at the upside, an eternity in Heaven and avoiding eternity in Hell. To me the choice was, and is, easy.”

  “I don’t buy it,” Claire said.

  “OK, then let just say I’m too blessed to stress.”

  The barista that Claire berated approached the table with a fresh cup of coffee and set it in front of Clair.

  “Thank you.” Kelly smiled.

  Claire didn’t say a word.

  “My pleasure,” the barista said with a big smile as she walked away.

  Claire sipped at the coffee silently, having no idea that the barista spit in it.

  Chapter Four

  Cole turned down Lombard Street and watched the stream of tourists wind their way down the “Crookedest Street in the World” in front of him. Being a landmark navigator, he didn’t bother to write down the number of the house where Kelly was staying. Luckily for him there was a blue glass ball on a pedestal next to the front door. He signaled and slowed nearly to a stop before turning to assure the car load of touristas from Ohio didn’t rear-end him.

  Cole rang the bell, and heard the first few notes of Beethoven’s Fifth faintly through the front door.

  “Hello stranger!” Kelly said, as she wrapped her arms around Cole’s neck and kissed him warmly.

  “It has been a week of unparalleled turmoil. How ‘bout I tell you in the car? Ready to go?”

  “Spoken like a true journalist. Just let me grab my purse.”

  It was several minutes before either spoke. The traffic was fierce, and talking could be a dangerous distraction. Kelly let Cole bob and weave through the early evening traffic. The stereo played low and seemed a strange soundtrack for their drive to Erin and Ben’s.

  “Leonard Cohen? Are you feeling suicidal?” Kelly teased.

  Cole laughed and reached over and turned the volume off. “Sometimes you just need to know somebody else is worse off than you are.” Cole chuckled. “Leonard always does the trick for me.”