Cole Fire, page 16
“None of us is perfect. I’ve had my head turned a couple of times in my life. Thought I was pretty hot stuff after receiving a couple of awards. I get it. But something or someone always knocked me back down to size. You have to admit this went a little overboard.”
“Back when we started out, I started out, I was a kid with a love for Jesus and a gift of gab. I was the guest speaker who traveled around and spoke in churches. Skeeter had the idea to start preaching in parks. He knew how to rustle up a crowd. I thought he was just zealous.”
“Sounds pretty naive to me.” Cole interjected.
“I was naive. I came from a little dried-up speck of a town. My people weren’t educated. They were hammer pounders. I thought my calling to preach gave me an excuse to blow off school, and I did. So I tend to take people on trust. That’s not to say that we had no impact for God. We did. I’m just not too sure He is proud of how we achieved it.”
“I first saw you about three years ago in Golden Gate Park on the meadow. There were some pretty strange things that happened that day.”
“I was in full ‘big head’ mode at that point. I had ‘bit the apple’ so to speak. I confess a lot of that was Skeeter’s backstage showmanship. I figured as long as we drew crowds, and people heard the message, what did a little play-acting hurt?”
“It was fraud.” Cole frowned.
“It was. No argument.”
“Did you know that you have been under the scrutiny of the FBI and other government agencies?”
“Funny, isn’t it? They would waste time and money followin’ me around.”
“Did you ever perform a miracle?”
“No. Did God do something for a true believer whose faith was in Him? Absolutely. I have no power. And to be real honest, after a while I think God took his hand off me.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m sayin’ it was the Jesse and Skeeter Show. After a while,” Jesse paused. “Did you ever hear the thing about puttin’ a frog in cold water and turning the stove on? It’ll swim around as the water gets warm, then hot, until it cooks. You throw a frog into a boiling pot and it will hop right out. The water took so long to cook me I didn’t even notice. Somewhere along the way, all eyes were on Jesse, and God got left by the side of the road. We got bolder and bolder in our claims, and folks came along for the ride. I was as bad, if not worse, than any of those hairspray clowns on the TV selling Jordan River water, or Miracle Handkerchiefs. The people who followed me would never sit for that, but they bought my line without a second thought. Different packaging, same snake oil.”
“You sound bitter,” Cole said.
“Bitter, no, I don’t think that’s it. What you hear is disgust with a heaping helping of anger.”
“Anger?”
“At myself. I was despicable.”
“So what changed?”
“Three little words. ‘We did it.’ They scared me to death,” Jesse answered.
Cole sat quietly, waiting for Jesse to continue.
“So, that brings us up to the shooting?”
“Purdy much.”
“Walk me through that.”
“Well, it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out the next step for the Son of God is to rise from the dead!” Jesse laughed. “What blasphemy.” Jesse’s laughter was gone.
“Whose idea was it?”
“That one was all Skeeter.”
“But you went along with it.”
“I did. To my eternal shame. Look, here is the deal. I went along with his idea. It was stupid, vain, inspired by the devil. I get it. But the thing is, I ran. I’m still running. What do you think this get-up is all about?” Jesse ran his hand down his chest.
“Now what?”
“Just before I called you I went to Miki and Mini’s house, where there was a gathering of the core faithful. Only Skeeter and a couple of hired hands were in on the shooting. So you can just imagine how happy he was to see me. Poor Miki thought I’d risen from the dead.”
“What was the point of you going there?” Cole interrupted.
“Set the record straight and tell them to look to God and God only. Read their Bible. Find a good church, and don’t be deceived by false prophets.”
“How’d that go over?”
“Most everyone left. Skeeter went nuts, but his meal ticket just got cut off.”
“Speaking of the need for funds. Where’s that leave you?”
“I borrowed a buck to call you.”
“You serious?” Cole said in disbelief.
“Matthew 6:25, brother! Matthew 6:25!”
“I’m a little rusty, remind me.”
“Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Isn’t life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Aren’t you just as valuable as they? Can you add a single hour to your life by worrying?” Jesse’s voice suddenly turned into the street preacher again. “Hallelujah!”
“You can take the boy out of the pulpit...”
“I hope not,” Jesse said meekly.
“Tell me, what do you think Skeeter will do now?”
“God help him, I don’t know.”
“One last thing, what was the ‘Truth’ you always spoke of? I never could quite figure it out.” Cole smiled at Jesse.
“Chum in the water. Sumthin’ to draw ‘em in.”
“So what is the ‘Truth,’ Jesse?”
“There is only one Son of God, and it ain’t me.” Jesse stood. “My turn to ask you somethin’ Mr. Sage. You know in Bible times a sage was a man marked by great wisdom and calm judgment. I kinda get that from you.”
“Ask away,” Cole replied, having no idea where it was leading.
“What do I do now? I’m broke, and dead.” Jesse chuckled.
Cole knew it was not an idle question or a cute way to end their talk. Jesse Monday was truly seeking his advice.
“My turn to preach.” Cole was now standing, looking Jesse in the eyes. The guys in the Bible, from Moses to Jesus, would spend their ‘forty days’ in the desert. I think for your own mental and spiritual wellbeing, you need that desert time. I don’t mean Death Valley, but you need to disappear. It’s time for you to go...disappear for good.”
Cole reached in his pocket and pulled out his money clip. He pulled the clip off the folded bunch of bills. “Here, one hundred, eighty-three dollars. Go as far as that will take you, and start over as someone else.”
Jesse took the bills and gave Cole a bear hug. “God bless you, brother,” Jesse whispered as he released Cole.
“Tell me something, Cole, what are you going to write?”
“An obituary,” Cole said, smiling.
Jesse Monday put on his sunglasses and without a word, turned and walked away.
Cole walked over to a cart with a bright red and white umbrella. He was going to get an ice cream bar and sit and reflect on his encounter with Jesse. There was only one problem. He’d given Jesse all his cash and only had seventy-two cents in his pocket.
He wandered into the Hard Rock Café and sat at the end of the bar. He struck up a conversation with the bartender and bought a Coke with his credit card. He told the barman he let his cash get away from him and asked if he could use the phone to call the Chronicle.
“I can’t let you do that,” said the bartender.
“Here, buddy.” A man down the bar slid his cell phone to Cole. “That story is too stupid not to be true.”
Cole called Hanna and told her he would be waiting out front. No offer to pay tickets this time.
Twenty minutes later, Cole saw Hanna’s beige Bug pull up. He didn’t want to lie to her, but he didn’t want to tell her Jesse was alive, either. His twenty minutes of clever preparation evaporated.
“Thanks.” Cole paused for dramatic effect. “Again.”
“So what did he say?”
“The guy that showed up was someone I’d never seen before. Kind of freaky, powder blue track suit, and you’d swear he had alopecia.” Cole buckled his seat belt.
“Yeah, what did you learn?”
“Skeeter’s a rat. He’s the mastermind behind the Jesse Movement. Like you said, he’s all about the power.”
“Did Skeeter kill Jesse?”
“Nope. This guy saw the shooter. Wasn’t Skeeter.” So far, so true, Cole thought.
“Did he know what happened to Jesse’s body?”
“Yes, well kind of. He said that Jesse was moved to a taxi. He had no idea who the mortuary guys were. So that’s that.”
“So now what?”
“I write the obituary and we let the police do their thing on the follow-up. The news guys can keep tabs on that. Then we shift gears to the arsonist.”
“What about all my notes and stuff on Jesse?”
“Did anybody ever tell you, you ask questions like a reporter?”
“No, because I’m no,” Hanna mocked.
“You’ve heard that one?”
“Yeah.” Hanna downshifted and hit the gas.
Cole was greeted at his desk by a pink message slip with “Call Randy” scrawled across it diagonally.
“Hi, you just caught me. I was getting ready to call it a day. I think I found your guy,” Randy said.
“And?” Cole said expectantly.
“Donald Peter Wiltz. Enlisted September 1970. Assigned to the 10th Public Affairs Detachment, in Saigon, just like you thought. Served July ‘71 through Dec ‘73. Medical discharge. He was in the bombing of a Saigon nightclub. Get this, he was severely injured. He lost part of his upper thigh and genitals. Damn. If that doesn’t make you squirm in your seat...”
“What makes you think he’s our guy?”
“Your paths may have crossed again in Chicago. According to some medical records I accidently stumbled onto, he not only took a while to heal, he spent almost two years in a Psych Hospital in Texas.” Randy paused and Cole could hear his keyboard clicking. “Here we go, ‘Upon release, he went to Central Illinois State College, earning a degree in Counseling. His Master’s was in Psychology with a concentration in Counseling. Thesis title? Counseling Needs of Veterans with Post-war Trauma.”
“He was kind of ahead of his time.”
“His first job out of college was Jesse Brown VA Medical Center, Chicago, Illinois. Heard of it?”
“I know it well. They do great work,” Cole replied.
“He spent almost twenty years there, then eight years ago came to San Francisco as Director of Outpatient Counseling Services. I bet a hundred bucks he’s our guy.”
“Randall, me lad, you are a wonder. How about you and I go have lunch at the goofy Fusion Mexi-Cali place you like so much?”
“Si, Senor dude!”
“Next Tuesday. Call and remind me,” Cole said.
“That’s three you owe me now.”
“That’s why I said remind me. Now go home.” Cole hung up and dialed Leonard Chin.
After six rings, Cole was given the message prompt. “Hey, it’s Cole. I think I have something on the arsonist. Call me.”
Hanna’s head popped through the door. “Dare I ask how you’re getting home?”
“I’m supposed to get a rental car tomorrow, today actually, but we kind of...”
“Five minutes?”
“Ten, and I fill your tank and buy dinner.” Cole smiled hopefully.
“Serious, lunch and dinner?” Hanna said in amazement.
“Only if we hit an ATM first.”
“Deal.”
ELEVEN
“Good morning, Victoria. What are you doing here?” Don Wiltz smiled at the beautiful young Latina sitting at Terri’s desk.
“Terri called in sick. They sent me over to help with scheduling.”
“It’s wonderful to see you. I hope you have a good day here. I’ll try to go easy on you.” Wiltz fairly gushed.
Truth be told, Don Wiltz would give everything he owned, then be willing to die, to spend just one hour being normal again and making love to this raven-haired beauty. He felt an embarrassed flush come over him. Did he say too much? Seem too eager? She was so lovely, though. Why couldn’t he have a woman like her? He would take such good care of her. Not now, it was too late for him, but when he was young. He would have worshipped her, given her everything she could ever want. If only he was a whole man. He could have given her everything she ever wanted, except the one thing a beautiful young woman would need—a real man to fulfill her desires, her passion, and to someday give her children.
Wiltz left the door to his office open, so he could see Victoria. He loved the sound of her voice. She had the faintest of accents and that was so very appealing to Wiltz. He felt normal. He didn’t think of fires, he hadn’t heard the voice of Charlie Baranski. She was like a soothing angel come to free his mind and relax his soul. It was as if he found a harmony between his body and spirit. There was no escaping it, he loved her. From the first time he saw her in the cafeteria, he had loved her, and it felt so good.
The morning went by far too quickly, Victoria setting appointments and introducing him to his clients for the day. He was loving his work. He listened and responded to the needs of the veterans who sat across his desk and felt their gratitude for his counseling. At eleven-forty-five, Wiltz had an idea, a fleeting thought, really.
He would ask Victoria out to lunch. He began to role-play different opening lines, and witty things he could say to charm her. It would be all right because he was so much older than her. How old was she? he wondered. Twenty-five? Less, perhaps? As the minutes ticked away to the lunch hour, Wiltz began to lose confidence. The palms of his hands were wet, his stomach churned, and he felt a tingling sensation of panic come over him.
At five to twelve, Don Wiltz stood up. He took a deep breath and started for the door.
“Donnie’s got no pee-pee, Donnie’s got no pee-pee.” The sing-song taunt of Charlie Baranski filled the room.
“Stop it, stop it!” Wiltz whispered through gritted teeth.
“Go sit down, you old fool. She would laugh in your face. She can get a real man, a whole man, a man with...”
“Enough!” Wiltz growled and closed his office door.
The rest of the day was spent waiting for Victoria’s gentle tap on his door and the next counseling session. He barely spoke to her the rest of the day, and at four-thirty she came in and said she was returning to her department to check messages, and catch any last-minute details for tomorrow.
Wiltz bid her good-bye. Defeated and inadequate, he watched her shapely form exit his office. He left his office at five, feeling deformed and alone.
The Banquet Mexican Style Frozen Dinner sat on the table only picked at. The clear plastic covering, peeled back, but not removed, dripped with condensation. Wiltz just stared ahead. The image of Victoria kept running though his mind.
He drank a mineral water and tried to watch television. Channel after channel he flicked up, then down, pausing only to catch glimpses of the local news, a game show, and an old Seinfeld episode. It seemed to Wiltz that all the other channels were just commercials. He turned the television off.
With his feet up, his shoes off, and the soft comfort of his recliner embracing his weary body, Donald Wiltz drifted into a dream of Victoria’s soft breath on his neck, and her deep red lips softly whispering words of love in his idea of Spanish.
Victoria’s soft skin, the smell of her hair, her soft sweet Mexican accent filled Wiltz with delight even if it were a dream. He watched her walk across the room to him, her smooth brown skin glowing in the candlelight.
“You are such a fine man,” Victoria whispered.
“And I am a dead Vietnam veteran wanting you to wake up!” The sweet seductive tones of Victoria turned to the raspy anger of Charlie Baranski and jolted Wiltz from his dream.
“What a horny dog you are, Wiltz. Wake up and get ready, tonight is the night.”
“This is it? The last mission?”
“If all goes well, we will examine that possibility.”
“That’s not good enough. I want your assurance that this is the last time,” Wiltz demanded.
“OK, you have my dead man’s hand pinky swear. Happy?”
Wiltz didn’t respond, but he determined he was finished.
“Now can we continue?” Charlie began. “Have you done your reconnaissance of the target?”
“Three trips.”
“How many stories?”
“Eight. One front entrance, two to the rear. Elevator from the lobby. Staircase from the original design. Looks to be from the thirties.”
“Assault?”
“I will start on the fourth or fifth floor, to be determined by the number of hostile force I encounter.”
“You are so good at this kind of work, I don’t understand why you would ever want to quit.” Charlie said in genuine confusion.
“Because it is wrong. We should never have started. People have died, Charlie. It isn’t just buildings. People, living breathing people, burned to death.”
“Gooks, nothing more, nothing less, the same Gooks who blew off your balls. I would think, as hot as you are from that little Mexican hottie in your office, you would want to kill as many as you can to get even for never getting some of that.”
“Leave her out of this. Let’s finish.”
“I think we’re ready. Want to go back to sleep and finish with Chica Bonita?”
This time Wiltz simply ignored Charlie’s vulgar taunts and went and laid down on his bed. He set the alarm on his cell phone, covered himself with the bedspread and closed his eyes.
At first, Wiltz thought he had set the alarm wrong. It seemed only moments before, but it was one-thirty. Time to go.
He changed into jeans, a sweatshirt, and grabbed his Army-issue green jacket from the closet. In the kitchen he rinsed his mouth in the sink and splashed his face. His stomach churned. From an open carton in the refrigerator he took a long pull of milk, in hope it would settle his churning guts.
Wiltz took a deep breath, turned off the kitchen light and opened the garage door. The red plastic gas cans waited next to the car. The idea of taking two containers was a bit unsettling, but this was the biggest target. He put them carefully in the back seat.
