Pieces of Light

by Julie Cave

  "Uh," said the bomb maker, throwing a glance back at his tools. He thought quickly. He'd timed the tasks he needed to do today to perfection, and he couldn't afford a break. But he didn't want Randy to become suspicious. He'd always been pretty happy to hang with Randy in the past, mostly because his neighbor never noticed whether the company was bad. The bomb maker wanted to scream with indecision.

  "I'm sorry, Randy," he said finally. "I sort of committed today to getting this chore done."

  "Oh," said Randy, nodding. But he didn't move. The silence stretched out.

  "Randy?"

  "You want some help?" offered Randy. "Man, it really stinks in there!"

  The bomb maker wanted to start pounding the side of the van with his fists. Instead he laughed, a brittle noise that sounded forced even to his ears.

  "I'm good," he said. "Thanks though. No point both of us passing out from the smell."

  Finally, it seemed to sink into Randy's thick skull that he wasn't wanted. He languidly waved goodbye and sauntered away.

  The bomb maker glanced at his watch and thought about all of the things he still needed to get done before his self-imposed deadline.

  Feeling his stress levels rise, he began humming to calm himself down. An anxious bomb maker often made for a dead bomb maker. He had to have steady hands and a clear brain.

  He thought of a Billy Idol song, in an effort to settle his mind. Instead of humming In the midnight hour, she cried more, more, more, he changed the words to In the midnight hour, the bomb roared, roared, roared.

  Feeling calmer, he got back to work, attaching the time delay to the fuse. By design, he was working with explosives that were reasonably stable. He didn't have to worry about heat, bumps, fumes, or anything else that would set the bomb off prematurely. The payoff was that the bomb would lack the power of its more unstable cousins. The bomb maker's intent was not to take as many lives as possible, or even to cause the maximum damage. There would be collateral damage, of course. Lives probably would be lost; destruction would certainly be wrought.

  But in the end, he simply wanted to send his message.

  * * * *

  Dinah Harris glared at the oscillating fan as though one of the hottest summer days on record was solely the fan's fault. She lifted hair damp with sweat from her neck and twisted it up on top of her head. She was perusing notes for her book idea and had spent last night writing down every random thought that came into her head about it. Now she was sorting through them all and wondering at some of the nonsense she'd clearly thought sounded lucid last night.

  She'd gotten the idea from a friend at home group during the week. There were two funny things about that statement, she suddenly thought with a grin. One, that she had a friend, given her profound instinct never to let anyone get too close; and two, that she was going to a church home group. The idea of it had been awful, but the reality had been a lot better.

  Dinah had been telling the women in her group about her current job as a freelance crime consultant, and her previous job as an FBI agent. They had all been so interested that one of them suggested she should write a book about her experiences.

  It got Dinah thinking, but down a different line. She wanted to write about the people she'd encountered along the way. There were many stories worth telling — gang members with the courage to walk away, everyday heroes, and even the backgrounds of violent criminals.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the shrilling of her cell phone.

  "Hello?"

  "Hey, Harris, it's your old partner in crime," said a familiar voice.

  Dinah felt a rush of delight at hearing the voice of her old FBI partner, David Ferguson. They'd worked closely together for years, until Dinah's drinking problem had gotten her fired from the Bureau. He had always been her greatest champion, even when at her lowest point she had turned up for work drunk or hung-over. Their relationship was one of bantering rather than deep and meaningful discussions, but they were still as close as a professional partnership could be.

  "What's up, Ferguson?" she asked. "Why are you bothering me on a Sunday?"

  "Oh, I don't know," said Ferguson breezily. "I just thought you'd be pretty thrilled to talk to the new Assistant Special Agent in Charge."

  Dinah grinned. "You? Didn't they have anyone else? Are things really that bad at the Bureau these days?"

  "I really miss that sarcastic sense of humor, Harris," said Ferguson. "You really know how to build a guy up, don't you?"

  "Seriously, you're the new Special Agent in Charge?" asked Dinah. "That's really something. Congratulations."

  "You haven't asked me what department," said Ferguson, sounding like the proverbial cat with the cream.

  "What department, Ferguson?" Dinah asked impatiently.

  "Domestic terrorism!"

  It was a prestigious gig. The Bureau appointed agents to high-profile positions only if they had a long, scandal-free history of clean cases and a good solve rate. Her own presence notwithstanding, Ferguson had been a longtime and loyal servant for the Bureau and deserved his promotion.

  Dinah couldn't help but feel an edge of jealousy. She had been one of the Bureau's brightest stars, brilliant at her job in the Violent Gangs department, extracting high-ranking gang members in exchange for intelligence. She'd enjoyed almost legendary status, at least until she lost her husband and son in a car accident, began drinking heavily to cope, and made a series of spectacular mistakes. Finally, her alcoholism had led to her firing from her beloved Bureau.

  "Ferguson, you are totally awesome," she said sincerely.

  "Listen," said Ferguson, suddenly serious. "The best part about being in charge is that if I need an external consultant, I can hire one."

  Dinah smiled. "You don't have to keep saving my butt, Ferguson."

  "Yeah, I know. But just so you know ... if I need you, I'll call you. I heard you did some good work with the serial killer and the Metropolitan Police."

  Dinah thought of the last case, a serial killer bent on removing victims he decided were not worthy of life based on his own crazy eugenic agenda. It had been the first case she'd worked in a long time completely sober, and the gratifying thing was that she'd done some good work.

  "Thanks, Ferguson. I'll always take your calls," said Dinah.

  "Well, stay tuned," said Ferguson. "Listen, is everything going okay with you?"

  Dinah knew what he was talking about. He wanted to know if she was still sober and if she was coping. "Ferguson, I've been clean for close to six months," she said proudly, one relapse notwithstanding. "I feel optimistic and hopeful. I have my faith in God and joy in the redemption that He's offered me. I honestly feel the best I have in a long time."

  "That's really great, Harris," said Ferguson.

  "Listen, could you do me a favor?" Dinah asked.

  "Sure thing. What?"

  "Do something about this ridiculous heat, will you?" Dinah grinned. "It's killing me here."

  Ferguson laughed. "I hear you. You'll have to put a word in to the man upstairs about that, if you know what I mean."

  Dinah hung up and made herself a cup of coffee. While she inhaled the bittersweet aroma, she stood by the window, looking down at the street. The heat was intense and it had brought people outside: kids in paddling pools, parents on loungers in the shade, older children enjoying the luxury of a cold ice cream. Dinah smiled at the activity and wondered what her boy Sammy would be doing today had he still been alive.

  It had been three years since his death along with his father, Dinah's husband, in a car wreck. He would be six now, going to school and the emergency room in equal measure, given his adventurous spirit.

  Dinah noticed that the ever-present sadness filled her heart, but at the same time, she was smiling at the fond memories. This was a big step, she thought. She'd never been able to attribute any positive emotions to the memory of Luke and Sammy. Perhaps, finally, she was dealing in reality rather than alcohol-numbed delusion.

  Still wi
th a smile on her lips, she walked to the kitchen and began to poke around in the refrigerator, searching for something to eat.

  For one of the first nights in a long time, she didn't think about alcohol.

  * * * *

  The sun, a belligerent orange disk, took its time to sink down to the horizon, as if petulant that it could no longer terrorize the inhabitants of D.C. during the night. The bomber had hoped for a cover of darkness but eventually conceded that long-shadowed twilight would have to do.

  He drove the van carefully. Although it wasn't unstable, the cargo in the back was heavy and he didn't want the bags to topple over. He also drove carefully to ensure a passing cop wouldn't pay him any attention.

  He wore high-visibility work clothes so that wherever he stopped, he looked like he had work to do. He'd even brought some tools and temporary fencing with him. If questioned, he planned to say that he worked for the city and had received an urgent call-out.

  Finally he arrived at the chosen target. Our Lady of Mercy Catholic Church, on Fourth St. NW, had been built in the late 19th century of red brick and stained glass windows. It was not large and occupied a grassy corner block. At the moment, a steady stream of people arrived at the church for evening mass.

  The bomber parked his van up on the curb illegally and immediately pulled out his temporary fencing and placed it around the fire hydrant. It would look to passersby like he was conducting emergency repairs of the hydrant, and in any case, he didn't plan to be here long. He busily inspected the hydrant, tapping it and casually producing tools as if he knew exactly what he was doing. He bent down and stared hard at a bolt, as if it were offensive in some way. He stood up, scratching his head. The final scene in this grand charade involved pretending to receive a cell phone call, glancing at his watch, and walking rapidly away.

  With his heart making a staccato rhythm in his throat, he waited for someone to yell at him or stop him. At the end of the street, still pretending to have a conversation on his cell, he turned around and scoped out the street. All the visible pedestrians were too busy to take notice of the van and hurried by without a backward glance.

  The bomber then looked at the buildings around the church, where somebody looking out of a window might have seen him and wondered what he was doing. The bomber had taken precautions: he had a stolen van, he wore unremarkable, working-man's clothing, and the broad-brimmed high-visibility hat he wore low so that his face was partially obscured.

  Everything had gone according to plan.

  Now the bomber made his way to a nearby shopping mall, where he would buy a drink and sit at a table facing the street. From here, he couldn't see the church, but he'd be able to see the detonation.

  At 5:30 precisely, evening mass began at Our Lady of Mercy Catholic Church. The usual Saturday evening attendees were there.

  At 5:42 the bomber, seated at a bench overlooking the street, pretended to take another cell phone call. Except this time, he pressed the "receive" button.

  The explosion could be seen before the loud rumble reached his ears, and the seat beneath him shook a little. A smoky orange ball rose above the rooftops and the bomber had to suppress a smile at its beauty.

  Loud exclamations erupted around him. Instinctively, people began to leave the mall quickly, fearing being trapped among tons of steel and concrete in the event of a second blast. The bomber, a look of blank panic upon his face, did the same, except he made for the men's room rather than the exit. There, he ditched the high-visibility work clothing, underneath which he was wearing casual chinos and a T-shirt. He wandered out onto the street, where bewildered people were milling as sirens grew louder in the dusky air.

  "What happened?" he asked a young lady standing nearby. "Do you know what happened?"

  "Something's been blown up," she said, her voice high-pitched. "People are saying a church has been blown up!"

  "What?" he said, faking incredulity. "Who would do such a thing?"

  "Terrorists," she said gravely.

  He shook his head as if he couldn't believe his ears.

  As he'd known it would, his bomb shut down the city. Trains stopped running immediately and buses and cars stalled in a severe traffic jam. Police were in the process of setting up roadblocks near the bomb site to check vehicles.

  The bomber walked the 15 blocks home. It was hot and tiring, but he was keyed up anyway and needed to exercise off the adrenaline. By the time he reached his little bungalow, the bomb had made it to the major news stations. Like a pyromaniac watching his own fire with glee, the bomber watched the newscasts late into the night, eventually falling asleep on the reclining armchair.

  By morning, the news would be able to paint a clearer picture. Two people were dead, 35 were injured. The church looked like a listing, stricken warship, one entire wall missing and the roof leaning precariously to one side. A burning, acidic odor wafted pungently over the bombsite.

  It was immediately apparent how the church had been attacked: only ten feet away from the collapsed wall sat the smoking remains of a vehicle.

  The bomber couldn't have been happier. His reign of terror had begun, and it filled a gaping, desolate part of him with an elation and arrogance he'd never felt before.

  Everyone in the city whispered to themselves and each other: Am I in danger as I kneel to pray? Will I be blown up as I raise my voice in praise during morning prayers?

  Mostly, they wondered, Who did this and why?

  Chapter 2

  The air was an iridescent green as Isabelle emerged from her house, already running 15 minutes late. The afternoon was eerily still and expectant, waiting like a pregnant mother for the big event as the thunderstorm building from the west approached with ominous warning in its growling thunder.

  Isabelle made it to her car, her over-stuffed handbag making her left shoulder ache. She found her keys and unlocked the door. She noticed her hand shaking with dread expectation at her next appointment as she inserted the key into the lock.

  It was even hotter inside the car and Isabelle started the engine, turning the air conditioning up and waiting expectantly for the blast of arctic air. Her entire body felt slimy with sweat and she sat still for a moment, enjoying the cold air. The tinny car radio voice gravely issued a severe storm warning for the D.C. area, and then brightly announced that the Yankees were up two games in the World Series.

  Then she looked at her watch and realized that it was 7:20 and she was going to be extremely late for dinner at her mother's house.

  Isabelle drove out of the staff car lot just as the first fat drops of rain fell, intermittently at first and then with a thunderous roar as the heavens opened. She looked nervously through her windshield as her visibility dropped away and all she could see was a thick blanket of rain. Thunder grumbled in a heavenly temper tantrum, and lightning hissed with a pout. She realized with a sinking feeling that the traffic would be absolutely horrendous and she would be even later for the family dinner.

  Tonight was the family dinner arranged at her father's funeral. Isabelle had been dreading it all day, anxiety building steadily inside her like steam in a pressure cooker with no release valve. Now it was here and she was thankful that she had only one class to teach today.

  Her cell phone rang, and the ring tone was almost drowned out by the deluge drumming on the roof of the car. "Hi, it's me," Scott said unnecessarily. Isabelle could barely hear him.

  "Where are you? We've got dinner at Mom's tonight," Isabelle reminded him.

  "Yeah, I can't make it," Scott said. "I've got a meeting with the mayor tonight."

  She sighed. "I would like it if you were there."

  "I'm sorry, but this is the only chance I've got to meet with him." Scott didn't sound the least bit sorry. "I can't put it off."

  A slow flush rose in Isabelle's cheeks. She ignored the anxious roller coaster in her stomach. "Fine," she said. "I don't care."

  There was a pause on the other end of the phone. "This isn't one of those episodes where
you tell me you don't care and then sulk for a week, is it?" he said, his voice hardening. "I really don't have the time or energy for that kind of nonsense."

  Don't start anything, she warned herself. "No, of course not. It doesn't bother me," she lied. She didn't want to antagonize him. She put a smile in her voice. "I'll see you later at home. Don't work too hard."

  Mollified, Scott said, "Okay. Have a good night."

  Isabelle focused on driving in the deluge, trying to ignore the stress of the upcoming dinner together with worrying about whether Scott was angry with her.

  The storm had diminished in fury by the time Isabelle arrived at her mother's house. The battered pickup Michael drove was already parked outside and Isabelle pulled her own car up behind his.

  The house smelled wonderful as Isabelle made her way down the hallway to the kitchen. Her mother had no doubt cooked up a feast for the occasion. The pungent aromas of garlic, parmesan cheese, and freshly baked bread gently massaged her nostrils.

  "Hi everyone," she said, announcing her arrival.

  Michael had been staring out of the dining room window and spun around to greet his sister. Rosa had her head in the oven checking on the dinner. She withdrew to announce, "It's been ready for half an hour. Go and sit down. I'll serve it in the dining room." Isabelle heard the reproach in her mother's tone for being late.

  Michael and Isabelle did as they were told. The dining room was an old-fashioned formal room with an oval table made of polished wood, draped with a starched damask cloth. The room was lit with smoky, diffused light from an elaborate chandelier. Overlooking the proceedings were two large pictures of the virgin Mary, her face a picture of serenity and the hint of a halo above her head. An antique sideboard held all of Rosa's precious crockery, and atop the sideboard was a small shrine to the late Reginald McMahon. Various framed photographs jostled for position amid some of his favorite things — a family portrait when Isabelle and Michael had been kids, their phony smiles portraying a happy family, his gun license, and a Yankees pennant.

  Wonder where the leather belt is, mused Isabelle, remembering distant and shadowy times when a night of drinking inevitably led to the loosening of her father's belt. She could still hear the eerie whistling it made as it flew through the air before it made contact with bare skin with a resounding slap.