Pieces of Light

by Julie Cave

  Pieces of Light

  Julie Cave

  Copyright Information

  First printing: May 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Julie Cave. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations in articles and reviews. For information write:

  Master Books®, P.O. Box 726, Green Forest, AR 72638

  Master Books® is a division of the New Leaf Publishing Group, Inc.

  ISBN: 978-0-89051-608-9

  Library of Congress Number: 2011928273

  Cover by Left Coast Design

  Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 Biblica. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved. The "NIV" and "New International Version" trademarks are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica. Use of either trademark requires the permission of Biblica.

  Scripture quotations marked (NLT) are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  All characters appearing in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Please consider requesting that a copy of this volume be purchased by your local library system.

  Printed in the United States of America

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  please contact the publicity department at (870) 438-5288.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank Dr Georgia Purdom, who once again provided generously of her time to read the manuscript, make suggestions and ensure accuracy. Her dedication and attention to detail is more appreciated than words can say. I have grown to rely on and trust her instincts when it comes to creating the best possible manuscript.

  I must also thank my husband, Terry, for the sacrifices he makes to ensure that I have the time and space needed to write. Thank you for the many times you have given up a weekend or an evening so that I can immerse myself in the world of Dinah Harris. Thank you for sharing a passion to reach out to others with the good news of Jesus Christ, and for being a Godly husband and father.

  For my children, Jasmine, and the precious baby who is due to be born in August: I love you both so dearly. I pray that you will grow to love God and serve Him with joy your whole lives.

  This book is dedicated to you – the fans who keep buying my books, the people who read these books and blog about them, who follow me on Facebook, who talk to their friends and family about them, who leave me supportive and encouraging comments, who allow me to speak to at their churches or events, and who generously give up their time and energy to support the vision of my books. You will never know how much you all mean to me, and how grateful I am for you. To say thank you seems woefully inadequate. In any case, I say thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  All glory, honor and praise goes to God.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Sussex 1 State Prison

  Waverly, Virginia

  Prisoner Number: 10734

  Death Row

  I am on death row and they say I deserve to be here. I suppose I agree. I don't really know. I don't have any feelings about it. I know I killed some people, and that's why I'm here.

  I live in a cell that feels like the size of a postage stamp, but at least I'm by myself. I have my books, a television, and some paper on which to write. I have my thoughts, which are strangely muted as though they have jumped into someone else's head and I'm eavesdropping. They've been that way ever since they arrested me. Before that, my thoughts were all mine and I could hear them just fine.

  Apparently, this didn't help me during the trial. The prosecutor called me a "cunning, cold killer who took great pleasure in planning the details of his innocent victims deaths." The judge told me that my unemotional response to the guilty verdict read out by the jury foreman "chilled him to the bone." Even the newspaper, brought by my family when they visited the first time, had a picture of my blank face with the headline: "No Remorse Shown by Bomber." Why didn't you show any remorse? my family asked me. Why not at least apologize?

  Because I don't feel remorse. I don't feel guilt. I don't feel sorry. I feel nothing. Somebody has hit the mute button on me and I no longer can communicate the way I used to.

  I've heard the rumors about me — that I'm a sociopath, that I'm angry and hatred-fueled, that I'm mentally impaired because I have no conscience.

  I have felt anger, hatred, frustration, guilt, and even love before all this happened. I used to be a fully functioning, reasonably normal human being. I think that pieces of me are dying slowly, so that by the time my execution date rolls around, I'll be almost dead anyway. There are pieces of light inside of me, slowly extinguishing themselves, one by one.

  I don't blame this prison, or the police, or the jury or the judge. It is my fault — the dying process started the day I set the first bomb. When it exploded, something inside me let go and seems to be irreplaceable. It was then that the numbness began to creep over me the way the deadly cold slowly claims the life of those lost in the snow or at sea. The more bombs I set off, the worse it got. Perhaps, then, I'm a suicide bomber, only by slow degrees rather than all at once.

  But I was caught, and sent here to death row. My lawyer told me he'd appeal until there were no appeals left. I've probably got 15 years of life in a lonely cell ahead of me. I have to live here 23 hours a day. The 24th hour I go outside to a special yard for death row inmates and stare at the sky, wishing that my spirit could be free. My family visits me every 90 days, as per the warden's regulations, but they are not allowed to touch me. They can only speak to me through glass. I eat when they push a tray into my cell and I sleep when they dim the lights. At least I get to choose the method of my execution — lethal injection or the electric chair. Another death row inmate told me I should make up my mind now: by the time they get around to executing me, it's likely I'll have lost the mental capacity to make that decision.

  I haven't yet lost the ability to dream.

  I dream of silence. Here, it is never quiet. When awake, death row inmates yell at each other, scream at the guards, make demands of God, and vent their frustrations. When asleep, they weep, cry out, howl, or whimper, depending on which nightmare they're having.

  I dream that I have a normal life — loving parents, perhaps a wife and kids. Not the dysfunctional mess of a family I currently have to deal with. I dream that I have the freedom of a bird, to fly where my heart desires, unfettered by the judgments of men.

  I dream of being stuck in traffic, waiting on a delayed flight in an airport, being unable to find a parking space, and a thousand other little grievances because it would mean that I was free.

  I know there aren't many who would feel sympathy for me. What about the lives of the victims? They didn't get to choose t
he circumstances of their death. I, a convicted killer, have more rights in that regard than they ever did.

  That's true. I don't have a reply to that.

  So why on earth did I do it? I hear this frequently from my mother, who considers herself an abject failure in the parenting department because her son grew up to be a convicted murderer and death row inmate.

  I have no reply to that either. I don't know. I just don't know.

  Someone is coming who might be able to help me understand why. Her name is Dinah Harris. She used to be an FBI agent and she wants to write a book about people like me. She helped to track me down and arrest me but I'm not angry with her. I don't feel anything.

  Actually, I'm looking forward to it. She has black hair and pale skin and eyes that are haunted. I can see that she has pain in her past, like I do. I can tell that she is a complex woman, with deeds she wishes were left undone and words left unsaid.

  When she visited me the first time, to ask me whether I'd be willing to participate in her book, I told her that I would. She smiled and suddenly I saw that my initial impression had been a little wrong. Yes, she'd been haunted and hurt and regretful. But when she smiled, all of that was stripped away and I saw compassion, peace, and understanding.

  So I guess the truth is that I've agreed to do these interviews with an ulterior motive. I want to question her as much as she wants to question me. I want what she's got — compassion, peace, and understanding so powerful that they have somehow defeated despair, bitterness, and judgment.

  How did she do it?

  ONE YEAR EARLIER

  The funeral service had finally moved to the graveside, following the traditional church ceremony. It had been a moving service, at least for the mourners who didn't make up part of his immediate family. The eulogy was heartfelt and tear-jerking. It was a direct reflection of his life: flashy and impressive, soulful and well-loved. Yet it left an empty feeling in the deepest parts of the hearts of his children and a dark scar on the heart of his wife.

  The mourners were now few — his wife, Rosa, his adult children, Isabelle and Michael, several long-standing family friends, church friends, and some old work colleagues. The small group stood around the casket, staring down at the incongruously glorious spring flowers that adorned it, avoiding eye contact with each other.

  The day was still and hot, an Indian summer's day with a venomous thick humidity that settled on the shoulders of the mourners. The officiating priest's forehead was slick and shiny with sweat, and he looked distinctly uncomfortable in his black attire. Isabelle thought that everybody attending this funeral looked desperate to be elsewhere, though not because of the weather.

  Isabelle had been asked to give a eulogy and had refused. What would she have said about her father? He ruled us with an iron fist. He didn't come to any of my piano recitals. He pushed my mother against the wall when his shirts weren't ironed. He broke my wrist. What a guy. Is it irreverent to remark in his eulogy that I am glad he's dead?

  Isabelle tried to gather her unruly thoughts, reminding herself that she had only one more day to pretend her family was fine. She glanced at her mother, a tiny woman with veiled eyes. Surprisingly, Rosa's grief seemed genuine. Isabelle then darted a glance at Michael, wondering what he was truly feeling behind the freezing blank glare trained at the ground. Beside her, her husband, Scott, fidgeted impatiently, his irritation at having to be here oozing from every pore.

  Isabelle wondered what the other mourners were thinking. Had they really known Reginald McMahon? There had been the public persona: charming, witty, kind, thoughtful. He had been the first to volunteer to help another family, to paint the church, to give money where it was needed. Those outside his family had not known of the explosive temper, the controlling behavior, the acidic tongue. Yet it was clear from the small number of mourners that he'd never really had a close friend.

  Finally, the priest finished his brief remarks and invited those present to say a few words before the casket was lowered into the grave. In awkward silence, the attendees shuffled and desperately avoided looking at the priest or at each other. After a few moments, the priest began the last rites, throwing handfuls of dirt over the casket. He encouraged everyone to follow suit.

  Rosa lingered over the grave and wiped away tears. Isabelle marveled at the depth of her mother's delusion, even on the very day she became free from her husband's tyrannical rule. Michael sauntered over and tossed in a handful of dirt carelessly, the contempt curling his upper lip the only indication of the emotion he was feeling. Isabelle was quick, glad that the whole sorry day was almost at a close.

  The small crowd dispersed, leaving the family to watch the burial in silence. In the still air, the rhythmic thud of the shovels of dirt being tossed into the grave was hypnotic. Isabelle wondered whether her family could now begin to heal, now that he was dead.

  "What am I doing to do?" Rosa finally spoke, her voice a low keen. "What am I doing to do without him?"

  "How about throw a party celebrating the fact that he's dead?" suggested Michael, his voice hard and tight. "Then we could burn his clothes and try to pretend he never existed at all."

  Rosa gasped, turning to Isabelle to defend her.

  "Michael ..." started Isabelle.

  Michael waved his hand dismissively. "Yeah, I know. Now is not the time or place. Whatever. It's never the time or place."

  "Well," interjected Scott, with perfect timing, as usual. He looked meaningfully at his watch. "I've wasted too much time here already. I've got to get back to the office." He looked at Isabelle, eyebrows raised, as if daring her to challenge him.

  Isabelle didn't want any confrontation, particularly in front of her mother. She smiled. "Of course, I'll see you at home," she replied and watched Scott stalk away. For a moment, she wondered at her ability to deeply care about how everyone else was feeling when they so often didn't seem to return the favor. She hoped fervently that Scott would return home that evening in a much better mood.

  She turned to Michael. "We can discuss it anytime you want," she said. "I just don't think the funeral is the most appropriate venue."

  "Don't speak ill of the dead," added Rosa, which didn't help the inflammatory situation at all.

  "Mom," said Isabelle with a touch of frustration.

  "Okay, okay," her mother relented. "We're all upset, I understand."

  We are, but for different reasons than you think.

  "Let's have dinner tomorrow night at home," Rosa continued. "Will you both come home?"

  Michael glanced at Isabelle, who knew that if she didn't accept the invitation, then he wouldn't either. "Sure, sounds great, Mom," she said, with a long look at her brother.

  "Sure," he agreed. He didn't raise his eyes from the ground, where he was scuffing the toe of his sneaker in the dirt.

  They began the walk to the parking lot in silence, Isabelle wondering when this agonizing day would finally be over.

  * * * *

  He had been told that he looked like Billy Idol, the eighties rock icon, and he'd been pleased with that. So now, when he was in combat mode, he thought of himself as Billy Idol. As he worked, he hummed some of Idol's songs and changed the words to suit himself. Instead of singing, It's a nice day for a white wedding, he sang: It's a nice day for some blood shedding.

  As he sang, he built the bomb.

  He'd spent yesterday preparing for his target. There were a number of prerequisites: an older building was preferable, plenty of space at the front or side of the building, and the possibility of little collateral damage. It was important to him that surrounding buildings, like family homes, were not impacted by the blast. That's why he was tailoring the bomb not to ensure maximum payload but simply to damage the target building. He absolutely didn't want a child sleeping in her bedroom to wake to shrapnel peppering her curtains.

  It was important that people knew that he wasn't a monster. He wasn't interested in causing maximum harm. He just wanted to make his point.


  After about two hours, he'd found one that fit his criteria and then had begun looking for a vehicle to steal. There, too, were prerequisites for the vehicle. It had to be tough, big, unremarkable, and disposable. Therefore, he'd discounted a van with baby seats in it, a van filled with gardening equipment, and one he'd observed belching blue smoke as its driver pulled up to the curb.

  He didn't really know why he was applying moral values to the mission he was trying to complete. To an outsider, it would have seemed ridiculous. But how could he in good conscience build a bomb in a car with baby seats?

  Humming under his breath, he carefully inserted dynamite in the industrial plastic bag and checked that it was surrounded equally by the slurry mixture of ammonium nitrate and fuel oil. Then he meticulously attached the fuse, which he intended to set on a time delay.

  When his back started aching from bending over, he stood up and nearly smacked the top of his head on the roof of the van. It was far easier to build the bomb in the van in which he intended to detonate it, but it made for cramped quarters. The fumes were also getting a little too pungent, which was the biggest problem with building a bomb in a small space. And it was hotter than a commercial oven inside the vehicle. He checked that both windows were open and wiped his sweaty forehead.

  There was suddenly a pounding at the door of the van and his heart dropped to his feet. "What?" he yelled, fear hammering in his throat.

  "You okay in there, man?" a familiar voice yelled back.

  The bomb maker ground his teeth in frustration. It was his neighbor Randy, who was simple and harmless, if a little too curious for his own good. He flung open the door and quickly exited the van, almost stepping on Randy as he did so.

  "Just bought some fertilizer," he explained. "For my garden."

  Randy glanced around the weed-choked yard, but if he was surprised by this revelation he didn't show it. "Cool, man," he said with a shrug. "You were just in there a while."

  There was an awkward silence. "So did you want something?" the bomb maker asked finally.

  "Oh, right," said Randy. "Just wanted to see if you wanted to hang out."