Cole Fire, page 11
“Now there’s the thing that I wanted to ask about,” Hanna responded. “This whole ‘truth’ thing, everybody says, ‘Oh, Jesse shares the truth.’ Or ‘You need to hear the truth.’ All I heard was a bunch of clever stories with an ‘ah shucks’ delivery. You don’t have that. What is the truth, your truth?”
“The spirit knows the spirit.”
“A snake eating its tail,” Hanna scoffed.
“My truth is, your spirit is cold.”
“It doesn’t take much to figure that out. I don’t buy any of this mumbo-jumbo. I’m a reporter. I’m looking for the facts and to write an article. The truth as I see it is you’ve found a meal ticket fleecing the sheep dumb enough to buy this fuzzy, meaningless ‘Truth’ nonsense.” For the first time Hanna felt in control. She was a reporter. His feet were to the fire. He had to answer. To cut and run would reinforce her skepticism.
“Truth. It’s simple for those who believe.”
“So are alien abductions,” Hanna paused, “for those who believe. I know that the truth is admissible in court, it will set you free, and it is based in fact or reality. You can’t get past ‘It is what it is, everything is everything, que sera sera, and Jimmy crack corn,” Hanna smiled.
“I am the Truth. I am one with the spirit world. People will come to me because what I have Jesse Monday could never have. He was all about his little black book full of ancient stories, fabrications and contradictions. There is a power. I surrendered to it long ago. It channels through me, it gives me insights, knowledge and as the world will see, power.
“Like Hitler?”
“You disappointment me. You just don’t get it.”
“I’m really trying,” Hanna answered with a sincere look. “Where does this power you’re talking about come from? I’m just not seeing the whole picture, I guess.”
“There is a master of this world, an angel of light and such beauty it nearly blinds you. I first saw it when I was just out of high school. I never told Jesse because he would call him evil or ‘the Devil.’ But over time, subtly, and oh so slowly, I was able to mold Jesse’s message to be more in keeping with the real power. Now is my time. I will reveal myself and I will continue to draw people to the real power of this world, a spirit of beauty and light.” Skeeter’s voice was as beguiling as any salesman Hanna ever heard, as smooth as any late-night, neon-lit, barroom seducer, but Hanna wasn’t buying.
“So the idea of Jesse being the new Jesus?”
“Part of my plan. Let me ask you something. If you were told over the years that you were ‘just like God’s son’, wouldn’t you be flattered? If you saw droves of people coming to listen to you, wouldn’t you think you had something no one else had? And wouldn’t your ability to heal give you a feeling of the divine? Jesse did. His ego did.
“He never knew my team prepared the way, picked our little actors to be healed, promoted to draw the crowds, and never stopped giving him the strokes that no one could refuse. His only fault was he didn’t see it. He was, in the end, a tool of the spirit I possess.”
“Did you kill him?”
“Whoa, ho, ho!” Skeeter laughed. “Where did that come from?”
“Seems pretty clear Jesse outlived his usefulness.” Hanna said flatly.
“A convenience provided by the very spirit I have been talking about.” Skeeter smiled, then lowered his voice. “Adam took the apple, Lot’s wife had to have a peek, and John Hinckley wanted to impress Jody Foster. You, my dear, took the opportunity while your boss was laid up to play Lois Lane. The small voice that got all those people to do what he wanted was the same voice in the back of your head that convinced you this meeting was a good idea.”
“Murder is part of the beauty and light?”
“Liberation from this human form.”
“A hard sell.”
“Really?” Skeeter raised his eyebrows. “How many times have you wished the men who have hurt you were dead?”
Hanna was blindsided. Like a slap across the face with a wet dishtowel, she was momentarily stunned.
“But I had no intention of actually doing it.”
“Anyone who hates a brother or sister is a murderer, St. Mark something or other. The simple fact is ‘everything is everything,’ as you put it. I just saw and embraced it long ago.”
“So, what is the end result? For you, I mean. Why are you doing this? You’re no ‘soul saver.” Hanna wanted the interview to end.
“Since I am pretty sure this will never go to print, sorry, darlin’ but you’re a secretary, not a reporter. You’re trying to compensate for things far deeper than interviewing me. It’s in your eyes. So, I’m going to give you some truth, my truth, my only truth. Power, P-o-w-e-r. It’s all I want, need or long for.”
Skeeter’s final words sent a chill through Hanna, and she could feel her anger welling up from deep inside her pride. He stood, tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table, and turned for the door. Her face burned hot. A thousand and one parting shots raced through her head. To her embarrassment, Hanna didn’t say a word. Skeeter left the coffee shop and didn’t look back.
* * *
“Now you’ve done it!” Charlie Baranski said sarcastically.
The newspaper headline seemed to scream up from the breakfast table. Journalist Injured in Houseboat Fire. Don Wiltz ran his fingertips over the headline.
“It wasn’t even his house, you idiot.”
“Shut up!” Wiltz threw his hands over his ears.
“Who’s going to write the story now? How will we get our message out? You nearly killed the only one we had a chance of getting to do the story.”
“I didn’t know. How could I know?” Wiltz rocked back and forth in the kitchen chair.
“Maybe I chose the wrong guy for the job,” Charlie snarled.
“Then go! Leave me alone,” Wiltz pleaded.
“You have more missions. I will leave you soon enough. Little hole-in-the-wall shops evidently don’t matter. For now we have to think big.”
“No more. I’m through.” Wiltz began to weep. “I nearly killed someone.”
“You’re weak and disgusting. You’re through when I say you’re through.” Charlie growled.
The phone rang and startled Wiltz. “Hello.”
“Are you coming in today?” Terri asked. “It’s past nine.”
“I’m not feeling well. I may be in later.”
“No, you won’t,” Charlie whispered.
“I’m sorry about...” Wiltz began.
“Maybe later,” Terri cut him off.
“Still I...” the line was dead.
“There is a war to be won. We must decide on a target. You can kiss and make up later. We need something significant. Something big, that will draw attention to our cause. What do all gooks have in common, other than they squat and have slanted eyes?”
“I’ve warned you about your racism. This is about loss of face, not a race war.”
“If I can’t hate the enemy, how can I kill them?”
“We are burning property, not trying to kill anyone.”
“What do all the wonderful, caring, beautiful people of Southeast Asia all have in common?” Charlie mocked.
“They’re Buddhists.” Wiltz replied.
“Bingo! We torch a temple!”
Wiltz stood and moved away from the table. “All Buddhists aren’t part of our war,” Wiltz said, his resolve coming back.
“True, but there is a Vietnamese Buddhist temple off Guerrero.”
“That’s too big. How can I possibly burn that?” Wiltz paced back and forth in his tiny kitchen.
“Think outside your gas can. Use what is on site.”
Dressed in jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and a Giants baseball cap, Wiltz was as inconspicuous as a hundred other guys on the streets of San Francisco. The bus stopped within sight of the temple. At the bottom of the steps was a large “Welcome” sign and an invitation for lunch. Wiltz walked around to the right side of the building.
The narrow gap between the temple and the building next door was hardly wide enough for Wiltz to fit through. The back of the building opened onto a small garden with a trickling fountain, and a large, bronze Buddha. Bamboo plants lined the back fences, creating a dense impenetrable wall. It was a peaceful place, and completely empty.
The left side of the building was a bit wider. Half-way to the front was a gas meter. Behind the meter was a small door that opened to a storage area and access to the crawlspace below the building. Wiltz followed the gas line to where it went up through the floor. The plumbing and gas lines in the building were old and showed signs of damage and fatigue. Wiltz spotted a workbench against one wall. A variety of tools were haphazardly scattered around the bench, among them, a large screwdriver.
Darkness nearly engulfed a wide set of shelves. They were built as part of the house, and stacked to capacity with paint cans of all sizes and ages. Wiltz pulled a string attached to a small florescent fixture, lighting the space. Along the floor in front of the shelves were several five-gallon paint cans. One by one, Wiltz removed the lids. Some were almost full, others only held a few inches, and all were highly flammable. The cans were twenty or thirty years old and nearly all were oil-based paint.
With a methodical intensity Wiltz popped the lids off of gallon cans and tossed them aside. At the end of one shelf were five one-gallon cans of paint thinner. Like a champagne fountain he poured thinner in the paint cans until they overflowed and cascaded down on the next shelf. The fumes in the enclosed area were beginning to make Wiltz lightheaded. From the shelves to the door Wiltz poured a trail of thick, oily, white paint. He tossed the screwdriver back on the bench. He closed the door gently and continued on to the front of the building.
As he made his way up the steps to the front door, Wiltz saw that just like a lot of old buildings in the city, this one had been painted over and over and over. Everywhere he looked, large chips of multi-layered paint had fallen off, exposing the century-old wood that lay beneath.
The front door was a bit warped and gave a screech as it opened. The entry was nothing special, a table, and a rack with reading materials. A large staircase of dark wood ran up the right wall. As he walked into what was the living room when the building was a home, the scene changed. Bright gold and red cloths draped the walls. A shrine with a large golden Buddha, flowers, and bowls of fruit filled the wall opposite. To his right was a wide arch, and in the center of the room a long table was set with several large bowls of food, a stack of paper plates, and a basket of plastic spoons and forks. In the center of the table was a handwritten sign that read, “Help Yourself.” There was no way of knowing what was upstairs; it didn’t matter, the downstairs would burn fast and hot.
Wiltz left the building and walked several blocks before catching a bus for home. The plan was simple, better than he imagined, and he would return under cover of darkness to complete his mission. It was a little after twelve.
Having burned his gas container in Cole Sage’s car, it needed to be replaced and filled. Wiltz strongly considered going into work on the way, long enough to apologize to Terri for standing her up, but feared the abuse he would suffer from Charlie Baranski. Wiltz tried his hardest to not even think about Charlie, for fear he would return. The peace of not having Charlie’s voice in the car with him was cause for a small celebration, so Wiltz stopped at a small Mexican restaurant and ate a late lunch.
Stomach full, gas can ready, and plan set, at 2:30 Don Wiltz curled up on the couch for a nap. He slept hard, making up for the lack of rest he’d suffered since the offensive began. War was hell, and the dreams of orange napalm flames swirled and twisted with image fragments of his acts of arson. Dreams and nightmares kept Don Wiltz’s nightly rest fitful and splintered.
* * *
The hallways of Marin General were silent, except for the faint humming of electronic monitoring devices. No one noticed, or paid any attention to, the tall thin figure that exited the elevator. The gray hoodie he wore hid his face, and his movements showed no sign of hesitation.
The dark-haired nurse didn’t look up as a man against the far wall passed her station. Room 244 was lit only by light coming from around the bathroom door and the glow of monitors. Cole Sage was sleeping peacefully. The hissing of oxygen, and his heavy breathing welcomed his visitor as he sat down beside the bed.
The man sat silently watching Cole sleep. After a few minutes, he reached out and asked “Are you awake?”
“If I am, you’d be the only one worried about it around here.” Cole blinked several times. He looked at the man beside his bed, and frantically felt around for the control buried in the blankets. As the bed rose to the sitting position, Cole said, “Skeeter?”
“In the flesh.”
“What time is it?” Cole questioned, still trying to clear his vision.
“Little after three,” Skeeter said.
Cole tried to clear his throat and moisten his dry tongue. Skeeter handed him the partially filled glass of water on the stand next to the bed.
“No need to talk, I just need you to listen.”
Again Cole blinked and tried to shake off the cobwebs of sleep. “All right, what it is it that brings you out in the middle of the night to wake a dying man?”
“You’re not dying no more, smart guy.”
“You got me, I’m not dying. But you have to admit a little beauty sleep wouldn’t hurt me.” Cole was sitting and fully awake.
“Listen up. Jesse is dead. You’re a nuisance. I won’t have you distracting our followers or disrupting our work.”
“And exactly how am I doing that?” Cole may have been awakened abruptly but he was sure nothing of his had gone to print.
“Don’t play dumb, the woman you sent to interview me. That was not our agreement. She has an agenda. If you want the story you should have come.” His voice was angry but controlled. “I wish I hadn’t talked to her, Skeeter said, almost as an afterthought.
“Buyer’s remorse at three a.m.?”
“If you like. You just make sure that her stuff isn’t used.”
“Or what?” Cole pressed.
“We are not as unsophisticated as you want to think, Sage. We are also not some namby-pamby, turn-the-other-cheek types, either.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“We can see that you are very unhappy.”
“I may be in a hospital bed with all this crap hanging from my arms, but I guarantee I can still get up and kick your ass to where they put you in the next bed!” Cole’s anger-burned red hot. He struggled to untangle from the bedding to throw his legs over the side of the bed.
“Oh, so who is making the threats now?” Skeeter taunted.
Cole was about to stand when a voice came from the doorway. “What is going on in here!” the night nurse bellowed.
Skeeter stood and waited for a chance to speak. The nurse wasn’t having it. She blustered around the room checking monitors and getting the blood pressure cuff.
“I’ll be going, Mr. Sage. You just remember what I said.”
“I’ll say you will,” the nurse grumbled.
“Just for your information, I didn’t send anybody.” Cole barked. “You’ve given me all I need tonight.”
“We will continue our conversation,” Skeeter snarled, moving to the doorway.
“No need.”
“Excuse me,” the nurse said sarcastically, trying to get Cole back into bed.
“My number.” Skeeter scribbled his cell phone number on the menu card next to the bed.
“I’ve had your number from the start,” Cole quipped. It was too late, the man in the gray hoodie disappeared the same way he came.
* * *
Across the bay Don Wiltz drove to his intended target. The street light flickered across from the temple. It made a perfect spot for Wiltz to park. The streets were empty and the lights in the buildings were out. The neighborhood was silent and the air was sweet and crisp as it gently blew into Wiltz’s face.
The small access door on the side of the temple opened without a sound. It only took two matches to ignite the trail of paint he’d prepared earlier. Wiltz watched the bluish flame as it snaked its way across the floor to the shelves. There was a dull huff as the paint and thinner burst into a ball of flame. The dry split boards of the floor above seemed to embrace the fire. Quickly closing the door, Wiltz moved to the back of the building.
The unpainted boards of the back steps soaked up the gasoline like a sponge. The one-inch gap under the door, and the badly bent aluminum threshold trim, made it easy for the gas to enter the building. Along the right side of the building there was no effective way to apply gas on the wall without getting splashed. Wiltz waited until he was back in front to empty the can.
Starting at the front door, Wiltz saturated the worn and weary wooden porch with his remaining gas. He poured gas on the window ledges and under the front door. Wiltz would depend on the fire under the building to do his work for him. So as to not draw attention too early, he didn’t set either the front or back porches alight.
He crossed the street and put the gas can in his trunk and got in the car. He waited for the sign of flames. Wiltz reeked of gasoline and rolled the car window partially down for a breath of fresh air. Several minutes went by; no flames were visible anywhere. He was about to go back and light the gas on the porch when he heard a low, rolling, thunder from the temple building. Within seconds the front porch went up in flames. Fire engulfed the century-old wood and paint like so much cardboard. Wiltz’s mission was a success. He started the car and drove, lights off, into the darkness.
“Nice work,” Charlie said.
“And without your help,” Wiltz replied proudly, as he moved onto an empty Guerrero Street and turned on his headlights.
