All Cry Chaos

by Leonard Rosen

  "Also difficult. It's a delicate substance that has to be grown under strictly controlled conditions—not an easy material to handle, even for us. It's also expensive."

  "Why use HMX?"

  "Because it makes regular APCP a higher energy composite, with a shock propagation of about 9,000 meters per second. HMX is used with TNT in high explosives and shaped charges in the military. Second point: the problem with DB/HMX is that it has a pressure exponent of only .49 and burns at a rate of only one centimeter per second, more or less, so it's not as unstable as the bomber might have liked. The tests I ran indicate the addition of TNT to the mix, which brings the pressure exponent above one. The double base APCP would slow down the shock wave from the HMX considerably, but would also provide very hot gases for an intense burn."

  "Suggesting?"

  "Suggesting that your bomber was a damned fine chemist and an equally good rocket jock."

  Poincaré followed Meyer into the lab and stopped before a bin labeled Ammonium Perchlorate (AP). He opened the lid and scooped a white granular substance into Poincaré's open palm. "Notice that AP is whiter than table salt. It's an oxidizer—it supports combustion. You add powdered aluminum for fuel and bind it with hydroxyl- terminated polybutadiene, and in an hour or so you've got solid rocket fuel—which feels rubbery, like a bicycle tire. The HTPB binder also acts as a stabilizing agent, burn-rate inhibitor, and fuel for the APCP. NASA uses approximately two-and-a-half million pounds of APCP for each shuttle launch."

  Poincaré brushed the ammonium perchlorate back into its container and rolled a few grains between his fingers. "Could the bomber have purchased this anywhere—in Europe?"

  "Absolutely—or made it himself. In my report, I wrote that your guy worked or used to work for us or for an equivalent lab in France, Russia, or possibly China. The mix is simply too unstable in production to achieve anywhere but in a lab, under controlled conditions. Just about all the academic labs capable of this work are affiliated with space programs."

  "So you could have made this explosive?" said Poincaré.

  "That's right."

  "And where were you the first two weeks of April?"

  Meyer hesitated, then caught the edges of Poincaré's grin. "OK, so the French have a sense of humor."

  "But I will be checking your alibi. I'll have to."

  Meyer grabbed a pencil and a slip of paper off a shelf. "I knew someone would be the moment I found HMX in the mix. My wife's family owns a cabin on a trout stream in Idaho. The town store and local gas station will have credit card receipts, with dates— a trail about as long as my stomach is round. No problem establishing that."

  "I don't doubt you," said Poincaré.

  "But you should, Inspector."

  "Because?"

  "Because your bomber looks a lot like me. Minus the ponytail and high-tops, maybe. But I'm the type you're looking for."

  "More about that in a minute," said Poincaré. "Why did the bomber go to the trouble? Why use nitroglycerin and HMX crystals when ready-made plastic explosives or TNT would have killed Fenster just as thoroughly? For that matter, a bullet would have done the job."

  Meyer walked Poincaré back to his desk. "The remains," he said. "I imagine they were fairly crisp?"

  "Burnt beyond recognition. That's right."

  "Your bomber didn't want the body identified. Not visually, anyway."

  Poincaré had long thought so. His only remaining business was to determine who at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, beside Meyer, had the knowledge to grow HMX crystals of exceptional quality, smuggle them out of the lab, and mix a batch of enhanced APCP in Europe. That had to be the scenario, Poincaré reasoned. The eight or ten pounds of composite fuel needed to blow apart a hotel room could not have passed through airport baggage screening undetected. But a container of table salt might have. Meyer offered the information without hesitating.

  "Anyone in this lab could have grown the HMX. But all four of my guys stay here when I'm on vacation. Again, you'll have no trouble verifying this." Meyer reached into his mini-fridge in search of another drink. "This must be a rotten business. You have to catch the guy who did this and possibly dodge bullets in the process." He pulled a tab and took a long swallow. "You couldn't pay me enough."

  Poincaré checked his notes. "What about Randal Young? I reviewed the bios of more than a hundred people at this facility, and he stands out."

  Meyer sat on the corner of his desk. "I figured this would get around to him."

  "Because?"

  "Because he was a damned fine chemist and rocket jock with a degree from the Colorado School of Mines. Look, Inspector. A bomber can't be driving around with an HMX plus nitroglycerin mix in the trunk of his car. It's simply too volatile, which means whoever grew the crystals also mixed the fuel either onsite or close to onsite just prior to detonation. Your Dutch analysts were right to observe that the bomber used reflectors of some sort to concentrate and focus the blast. That would have been key. There's only one person I ever knew who fit the profile—Randy Young, and I thought of him immediately. But A, he died sometime in March; and B, he was a sweetheart of a man. Not a malicious bone in his body. So my considered opinion is that you'll have to look elsewhere."

  Poincaré left Meyer in his lab and was escorted to the offices of Valerie Steinholz, Director of Human Resources. Because his investigation involved a potential breach of JPL security, she released the names and addresses of six people without any of the privacy concerns that had frustrated Poincaré in Minnesota. The six were Meyer himself, his staff of four, and Randal Young on the off chance the dead can reach from beyond the grave. But it was the lab assistants Poincaré wanted to know more about. Young was interesting but unlikely. The timing was wrong.

  If it happened that neither Meyer nor anyone in his lab had left the United States in April, then Poincaré would soon be interviewing their counterparts at national space facilities around the globe. Nothing about that would be easy, but he would not know one way or another for twelve hours. All he could do was wait.

  CHAPTER 31

  In the meantime, Poincaré set out to find Alain Ackart and handed his driver the address Samuel had given him in Lyon. The ride took only thirty minutes but slid Poincaré hand over fist down links in an unfortunate chain, from the pleasant hills of Pasadena with its palms and watered lawns to the gritty, asphalt-ringed heart of Los Angeles. Not far off the Freeway, men on street corners sipped pint bottles from paper bags. He saw broken glass on the sidewalks and trash in the gutters. The July sun baked the streets, and the heat rose in waves such that as he approached the All Souls People's Ministry, a storefront in an otherwise abandoned strip mall, the sign strung between the arches of a defunct McDonald's shimmered as if Poincaré had approached from across a great expanse of sand.

  He stood at a large window. A geologist might have called the crack that bisected the plate glass, with localized zigs and zags, a San Andreas fault in miniature; and in fact, it resembled the line drawn on maps of California that Poincaré had seen. It was also a near-duplicate of a run of weeds poking through the sidewalk at his feet, a connection by now so familiar he took scant notice. On opening the door, he found eight robed men and women ranging in age from twenty or so to well past seventy seated at a row of folding tables before computers, blinking phones, and credit-card verification machines. Each Soldier wore an operator's headset and was busy recording donations, the mood bright and cheery however odd the juxtaposition of first and twenty-first centuries.

  "God bless!" One of the operators ended a call.

  On the far wall hung an enormous twenty-seven; on another, a large map of Los Angeles with more than a hundred flagged, numbered pins—one of which, Poincaré hoped, pointed to Alain Ackart. But for the robes, the All Souls command center might have been the headquarters of a politician seeking reelection.

  A woman with gray pigtails and yellowed teeth rose to greet him. She smiled as Poincaré held out a photograph. "Alain Ackart," he sai
d. "Early thirties. French. Do you know him?"

  She looked past Poincaré to the Lincoln Town Car parked at the curb. "Lost a child to Christ, have you? Either that or you're FBI. We've been raided every other week by G-men hunting for bombmaking materials. I'm afraid we disappoint them every time."

  "Please," he said.

  "Are you Mr. Ackart?"

  "A family friend."

  "In that case, why don't you try joining Alain in Christ instead of assuming he's lost his mind."

  "That's why I've come," said Poincaré.

  The woman's features softened. "To join him in Christ? You look more like you're from Tobacco and Firearms."

  "No, Madame. An address."

  "Do you see that twenty-seven on the wall over there?" she said. "Tomorrow it will be replaced with twenty-six and twenty-five the day after. Time is short, and the God who cares about you and me as well as Alain asks for your return."

  "So I'm told."

  "But you're not convinced."

  Poincaré confessed that he wasn't.

  "Good," she said. "Honesty helps. Make believe for a moment that one can believe in Christ and still be sane. There are two billion Christians in the world, you know. Do you think we're all insane—or is it that too much belief is the problem? Perhaps Alain's too fervent for your tastes?"

  "An address, Madame."

  "In a minute. But first you've got to listen to me. If you've come to rescue him, stop and consider rescuing yourself. You might ask, for instance, who has the real problem."

  "The problem is that people I care deeply about have lost their son."

  "I understand," she said. "But I'm thinking pride or logic is preventing them—and you—from coming home to God. He's not lost. Take a step. It will be the longest road you'll ever walk but also the shortest. Alain has taken it. It's a golden road."

  "Like Dorothy coming through Oz?"

  She patted his arm. "No, not really. Do you believe in anything, or is all this a game out here?"

  Poincaré did not have time to wait for Alain Ackart to return. The woman might give him nothing if this became an argument, so he answered in all earnestness: "I do have beliefs," he said. "I believe the world is broken. I believe we suffer and don't know why. I believe both we personally and the world are in need of repair." She waited for more, but he was done.

  "Well, that would be half the equation."

  "Perhaps. Where's Alain?"

  She walked around a folding table. Before Poincaré could produce a pen and paper, she sat before a terminal and scribbled an address. "Hand this to your driver," she told him. "He's Prophet 112 today. He's in the northwest quadrant, parcel eight." She led Poincaré to a map and pulled a pin. "Right here. It's a rugged area—but we know Christ will come to the least among us, so we go to the least among us. Tell Alain that the bus will pick him up at seven and that Sister Lucinda is very proud of him. The spirit of God moves this young man. It's a beautiful thing."

  "Why collect money?" asked Poincaré, motioning to the phone banks. "After August 15 you won't need any."

  "True. But before that we have expenses. Food. Fuel. Dormitory housing."

  "And what will happen on August 16th?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "If Christ doesn't come."

  Lucinda smiled. She showed no hint of anger, no suggestion that she had mortgaged her mind like that youngster on the subway platform in Boston. She did not have Charles Manson eyes. And in no event would she blow herself up to promote Christ's return. Her faith was real even if Poincaré did not share it, and in her he glimpsed the earnest heart of a movement he had yet to grasp: a movement of real people who lived in troubled times and longed for a Savior. For her, August 15 would be a simple, beautiful transition point in human history. "What if are the words of a doubter," she said. "Please, if you have just another moment, let me describe an Earth that can be, as it will be in twenty-seven days." She closed her eyes, and Poincaré could imagine she saw herself shoulder-to-shoulder with kindred souls traversing a meadow, storm clouds behind and a full, bright sun ahead. A look of peace settled over her as she began a recitation:

  "They will build houses and dwell in them; they will plant vineyards and eat their fruit.

  No longer will they build houses and others live in them,

  or plant and others eat.

  For as the days of a tree,

  so will be the days of my people;

  my chosen ones will long enjoy

  the works of their hands.

  They will not toil in vain or bear children doomed to misfortune;

  for they will be a people blessed by the LORD,

  they and their descendants with them.

  Before they call I will answer;

  while they are still speaking I will hear."

  She opened her eyes. "Isaiah 65: 21-24. What could be more gorgeous, Mr. Friend of Alain Ackart? Who would choose not to accept a world of such blessings? You?" She took hold of his hand, the sweetness in her suddenly stern and forceful. "Right now, I want thirty seconds of your time. Then I'll let go and you'll leave and we'll never see each other again. Agreed?"

  She had given him the information, and he had thirty seconds. Still holding his hand in both of hers, Lucinda asked: "What pain do you carry? We all carry pain. What's yours? What cuts you so deep you can't even look at it in the daylight? Feel this pain—the worst kind . . . the kind you brought on yourself through sin. Feel it! And now let it go. You can because Christ has taken that sin and taken your pain on His shoulders and died for us. If you believe, if you accept Him as your Savior, then you can lose your pain, my friend, now and forever. You can turn your rage to forgiveness just as our Lord has forgiven you. Imagine a pure, sweet Redemption!" She let go and snapped her fingers.

  The air did not clear. Only half the formula had worked: the recollection of Claire, stone-faced. Chloe, gone. Amputations and skin grafts and crushed bones. Hatred. A caged man snarling: you will suffer. Poincaré could not forgive, and he would never surrender his rage. He blinked and turned away. Sister Lucinda did not need to see his tears.

  Prophet 112 had not drawn a promising district for the saving of souls that day. Poincaré's driver pulled into a rough gravel parking lot bounded by a carpet warehouse, a pawn shop, and a pair of single occupancy hotels—some distance from the Los Angeles of thousand dollar suits and Ferraris. These people earned their daily bread pennies at a time, with cans and bottles delivered to a recycling center at the rear of a liquor store. A white-robed Alain Ackart stood at the head of the line, without a hat in the noonday sun. Poincaré thought to rescue him from heatstroke, if nothing else.

  "Uncle?" A look of joy greeted Poincaré. "I'm so glad to see you! Why are you here?"

  Theirs was no casual embrace. Poincaré held onto Etienne's cribmate as if letting go risked one of them sliding away. He took a long moment to run his fingers through the young man's hair. He breathed in the scent of him—clean and healthy—and then kissed the curly forehead with relief. Poincaré held him at an arm's length and saw that the eyes were clear, the delight on seeing his Uncle Henri real. "I was coming to LA on business," he said. "Your father told me about you. I needed to see these robes for myself."

  Alain smiled. "He wants you to bring me back?"

  Poincaré answered in French. "No. You're a grown man, Alain. Your parents can't order you home. They want to know you're well and for you to know they love you. Their door is always open." Two dozen witnesses watched, some pushing all their worldly possessions along with the bottles and cans in their shopping carts. A short woman wearing a bamboo hat hung her bags from a pole slung across her shoulders. Another rode an oversized tricycle at the head of several linked children's wagons. The bags that each carried were so plump that Poincaré scarcely believed an unclaimed bottle or can could be found in that corner of Los Angeles.

  "You look well enough," he said.

  "For a madman?" Alain laughed. "That's what Father calls me."


  Poincaré looked for signs. "What are you doing out here?"

  "Talking mostly, if people want to talk. What about you? Forgive me, but you look tired . . . and older than when I saw you last. Is the family well? How's Etienne?"

  If anyone could still make a claim on Poincaré's affections, it was this young man. He deserved a proper answer and would get one, but not here. "Let's talk," Poincaré said. "We'll step out of the sun for awhile."

  "I can't, Uncle. I'm working."

  "Saving souls, Alain?"

  "These people have suffered," said Ackart. "They should know that relief is coming soon." He pointed to the number twenty-seven pasted on the side of a dumpster. "They need to accept Christ in their hearts. None of us has long now. My parents are baptized. I know Etienne and Aunt Claire are. But you, Uncle . . . I remember Claire saying—"