Pieces of Light

by Julie Cave

  The bomber intended to make it more notorious. As he rolled into town, he knew that he'd found the right spot. His research told him that Manassas was a place where families lived, and where there was a gathering of families there was usually a good sprinkling of churches.

  It was now close to noon and the suburban streets were quiet. Parents were at work and children were at school.

  A few blocks later, he stopped the Impala to look at his target. The First United Methodist Church of Manassas was built in the style of a community hall. It was modern and large but looked like it was constructed more of glass and pre-fabricated concrete rather than steel beams. A spacious car lot at the back of the building provided plenty of car parking for the congregation and provided an excellent position for the bomber to park his dangerous load.

  He drove around the block several times, looking for landmarks that would disqualify the hit: the presence of a close-by police station or fire station, for example. However, the coast was clear and the bomber could not help but smile. It was working out perfectly.

  Next, he drove straight back into the depths of D.C., searching for a vehicle in which to build his next bomb. The police would be suspicious of vans; they were likely to implement road blocks and roadside traps for any poor soul driving a van so that they could search it. So he intended to mix it up.

  He drove toward one of the elementary schools in the inner city, where a fleet of yellow school buses were parked in the lot, waiting for their afternoon run. The bomber ditched the Impala and slipped into the lot. It was poorly supervised. The bomber bet there would be one or two security guards tasked with watching the lot, but since they didn't believe anyone would want to steal one, he wasn't concerned.

  He slipped between the buses, his eyes and ears sharp. He waited several moments for a shout or for footsteps but heard nothing. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost time for the fleet to move out. He pulled on a cap that resembled the uniform the bus drivers wore.

  When he saw movement in a nearby bus, he hot-wired the ignition and pulled the cap down low over his eyes. In the rear vision mirror he caught sight of a figure dressed in a bus driver uniform. He gave a quick wave and began to drive the bus out of the lot.

  His ears on high alert, he listened over the noise of the rumbling engine for shouts or running footsteps. He didn't hear anything, and only saw a line of yellow buses behind him, lined up like bees waiting to exit their hive.

  Feeling more relaxed, he drove the bus sensibly through the city before peeling off toward swanky Georgetown. From there, he drove a circuitous route around the inner city, with no particular destination in mind except to appear like a normal school bus driver who had finished his duties for the day.

  Finally, when he thought it was time, he drove the bus toward his home. It was here that he assumed the most risk: it would take only one nosy neighbor to wonder what he was doing with a school bus.

  He drove it into his workshop and left the door open. In case anyone was watching him, he promptly jacked up the rear of the bus, took out an impressive toolbox, and eased himself underneath the vehicle. When an appropriate length of time had passed, he made sure some grease was smeared on his hands and face and rolled out from underneath the bus. Then he closed the workshop door and headed inside, ostensibly to fix some dinner.

  Inside, he waited with bated breath for someone to hammer at his front door and demand to know why he had a school bus in his workshop. But the street was silent, and eventually the bomber relaxed. Everything was going according to plan. While the police sent out bulletins regarding stolen vans, he remained a step ahead. He smiled.

  He hummed a Billy Idol song to himself. Instead of singing It's hot in the city, hot in the city, tonight in his head, he sang, I'm smart in the city, smart in the city, tonight.

  Chapter 3

  Sinclair wanted to start with the van. Dinah wanted to start with the victims and witnesses to the bombing, but Sinclair won. He was the bomb expert, after all, and Dinah found it hard to argue when he fixed his blue eyes upon her.

  Tracing the vehicle identification number showed the van was registered to Mr. Maximilian Lowe, currently residing in the suburbs of North Virginia.

  The sun was still hot and beat down on Dinah's face through the glass window of the car as they drove to Mr. Lowe's house. On the way, she learned more about Aaron Sinclair's rise through the FBI, his interest in explosives, and his blinding ambition to continue climbing the promotional tree.

  Dinah felt a stab of envy as he spoke, thinking of her own rise and fall at the Bureau, both as spectacular as each other. She had at one time extracted high-ranking violent gang members into witness protection, hoping to dismantle the leadership of the gang in the process. Her ability to achieve this monumental task was unique and brilliant. When rookie agents began their training in Quantico, her name had been touted in the training program of the success one could achieve within the FBI. She bet they'd now stricken her name from the record, unwilling to highlight the fact that one of their brightest had fallen into a deep well of alcoholism.

  Suddenly, she realized that the car had stopped and that both Ferguson and Sinclair were staring at her. "Sorry!" she said. "I was too busy thinking."

  They had arrived at the house of Mr. Lowe, and Ferguson took the lead, rapping on the door loudly.

  Mr. Maximilian Lowe was a short, gnarled man in his early sixties, the kind of man who looked like he'd done hard labor all his working life. His face was tanned and seamed, his hands large and callused, and his eyes weary but bright.

  "Yes?" he said suspiciously.

  "We're Special Agents Ferguson and Sinclair from the FBI," announced Ferguson. "And this is our consultant, Ms. Harris. We'd like to speak with you about the van you reported stolen last week."

  Lowe waved them into the small house, into a vintage 1960s living room resplendent with lime-green shag carpet and brown paisley wallpaper.

  "Must be serious," Lowe observed. "I reported the theft to the police last week. Must have been Tuesday I think. It went missing on Monday night."

  It wasn't uncommon for criminals to report their own vehicles stolen and then use them in illegal activity, Dinah knew all too well. But this man looked entirely too honest to have been the church bomber.

  "What were the circumstances under which it went missing?" inquired Sinclair.

  Lowe turned bemused eyes upon the agent. "The circumstances are that the van was here when I went to bed on Monday night and gone when I woke up Tuesday morning."

  Sinclair nodded. "Did you hear anything during the night?"

  "Nope," said Lowe. "But then, I sleep like a log and snore like a wounded bear, apparently."

  "Was anyone home with you at the time?"

  "Nope. My wife died a few years ago, so it's just me here now. She could've told you all about my snoring, and she would've heard the van, too. She was a light sleeper."

  "Did you leave the keys in the ignition?"

  "Please," snorted Lowe. "Do I look like an idiot? No, I didn't."

  "You do any agricultural activity around here, Mr. Lowe?" Sinclair asked.

  Lowe laughed. "This is suburbia, in case you haven't noticed. Didn't you notice the herd of cows in my front yard?"

  Dinah couldn't help but smile at the old man's sarcasm.

  "No fertilizer on the property?" Sinclair asked, still completely serious.

  "You mean other than a few slow-release pellets for my pot plants? No."

  "Got any fuel on the property?"

  "Nope." The wily old man's eyes looked from one agent to another. "My van was used in that church bombing, wasn't it?"

  "I'm afraid I can't provide any particulars to you at this time," said Sinclair, which drew a roll of the eyes from Mr. Lowe.

  "Mind if we take a look around your home, Mr. Lowe?" Sinclair asked. "We won't take long."

  Lowe narrowed his eyes at them. "Don't you need a warrant?" Without waiting for a reply, he shrugge
d. "Well, I got nothin' to hide, so help yourselves. Just try not to make too much of a mess."

  Inside, Sinclair quietly explained what they were looking for: materials that seemed out of place, like a soldering iron in the bathroom; Internet activity on bomb-making; a room that might look like a science laboratory.

  While Sinclair quickly looked through Mr. Lowe's desktop computer, Ferguson and Dinah looked through the little house. They found nothing suspicious. Mr. Lowe lived like a bachelor, although traces of his wife's decorating touch remained. Several large photos of the Lowes when she was still alive adorned the living room wall. The kitchen was sparse and looked like Mr. Lowe subsisted mainly on macaroni and cheese and chili.

  It wasn't just about what she saw that made Dinah feel the unspoken truth of the house — it was lonely here, and too quiet. Perhaps there should have been the quick laughter of grandchildren or the old records of a woman who loved swing music. There should have been evidence of a lovingly tended vegetable garden, a half-finished knitted scarf, a book almost read. Dinah felt compassion swell in her as she drank in the atmosphere. She knew what it was like to be entirely alone, with no parents, children, or spouse.

  Sinclair motioned to them. "I'm done here," he said. "You finished?"

  "Yes," said Dinah quietly. "We found nothing. You?"

  "Nothing."

  Mr. Lowe looked at them from his recliner. "I told you, I got nothin' to hide."

  "Thank you, Mr. Lowe, for your cooperation," said Sinclair gravely. "We appreciate it and we'll leave you to get on with your day."

  "Will I be getting my van back?" Mr. Lowe asked.

  "Uh ..." said Sinclair. "No. Sorry."

  "It didn't survive the bombing, huh?" Lowe's eyes twinkled shrewdly.

  Dinah smiled and shook the old man's hand. "Thanks, Mr. Lowe," she said. "Is there anything you need?"

  He looked into her eyes. "There are many things I need, mostly my wife back," he said. "So nothing you can help with." He turned away before she could see the grief consume him.

  In the car, driving back into the city, Ferguson called the office. "I want you to scour the stolen vehicle registry for any van," he said. "Let me know of the most recent ones."

  He hung up and sighed. "Shame our bomber isn't as dumb as some of his predecessors," he remarked. "He could have made our lives a lot easier by renting the van in his own name."

  "There's no challenge in that," said Sinclair. "I'm glad it's not that easy."

  Dinah smiled to herself in the backseat. As an agent, she would have thought exactly the same thing.

  * * * *

  Isabelle McMahon lugged a pile of student files from the garage to her dining room table, and then wiped the sweat from her face. Why is it so hot? she demanded of no one in particular. She noticed that the house was quiet and filled with shadows, which meant that her husband Scott wasn't home yet. She was instantly filled with relief. It meant she had time to quickly clean the house up and start dinner. Scott hated coming home to a messy house.

  She spent half an hour tidying and dusting, making sure everything was in its correct place. She washed her face and hands and applied some lip gloss.

  In the kitchen, she marinated steaks in a red wine and oregano jus, and popped into the oven a potato rostii made with cream and cheese. While she grilled the steaks, she lightly steamed a vegetable trio of broccoli, corn, and peas.

  Scott liked to eat quality food, which meant that Isabelle constantly scoured cookbooks for new recipes and found sources for expensive food from farmer's markets and organic food stores. She had learned very early in the marriage that bland food would not cut it with Scott, and so now her repertoire was impressive. In those early days, food he didn't like was thrown in the bin untouched, usually with a scathing comment. He would then go out to eat, making it perfectly clear that she wasn't invited and she was quite welcome to eat her own tasteless food if she wished.

  It didn't take long for Isabelle to understand what Scott wanted: creamy risottos, herbed roasts, marinated steaks, spicy chicken, and tasty sides, all thoughtfully served with a matching wine. She had learned quickly.

  Tonight, Scott still wasn't home by the time dinner was ready, and Isabelle left the food to stay warm in the oven, waiting for him. An hour later, she was so starving that she decided she wouldn't wait any longer. She would probably catch trouble from Scott for not waiting for him, but that was a risk she was willing to take.

  An hour after she'd finished her meal, Isabelle began feeling worried. She wondered if Scott was okay. She called his cell phone, which rang and rang. She roamed around the house, passing by the front windows often to watch for his headlights turning into the drive.

  She saw nothing but darkness. She called his cell phone again, and he didn't answer. Anxiety built in her rapidly.

  She cleaned the kitchen and threw out Scott's meal, now thoroughly ruined. She tried to look through the papers she was supposed to be marking from her health economics class. She couldn't concentrate; her anxiety was too great.

  She called Scott for the third time, and got no answer. An insidious thought wormed its way into her mind. You'll feel better, it promised her.

  As if guided by an unseen presence, Isabelle made her way upstairs, to the en-suite bathroom she shared with Scott. She hid thin razor blades in her personal toiletries, a place Scott wouldn't look.

  She ran a deep, hot bath, stripped, and climbed in. The heat took her breath away for a few seconds and then she relaxed as the steam rose above her.

  She took a new blade from its packaging and tested the edge. It was coldly sharp.

  Her left arm palm up, resting on her knee, she used the razor to slice into her upper forearm, watching the bright red blood blossom.

  Almost instantly, she felt her anxiety begin to release, as though it had been trapped in her skin and now it could escape. She made another cut, a twin to the first one. Blood dripped into the bath, turning the water a rosy pink. Isabelle watched as her blood and the water mingled and marveled that she felt very little pain.

  She made two more cuts on her right arm, near the crook of her elbow. The anxiety seemed to rush out, like air from a balloon, until there was nothing left of her except shriveled skin. She didn't care, as long as the worry that ate her up had gone.

  The relief was so great that she actually felt sleepy, lying there in the bathtub. For a moment, she allowed herself to drift, thinking of a life without fear. Perhaps she could spend a year in Australia, swimming with sharks, wrestling crocodiles, daring the snakes to come get her, sky diving into the isolated outback so that she could fear nothing. Perhaps she could trek to the North Pole, unafraid of the desolate landscape or the freezing wind or frostbite. Perhaps she could cross the Sahara Desert on motorbike, or climb Mount Everest, or dive into dark, underwater caves. If she survived all these things, would she have conquered her fear? Would she be able to live completely confidently within herself, with no room for anxiety?

  With a start, Isabelle came back to the present: a steamy bathroom, stinging cuts on her arms, and a husband who would go ballistic if he caught her. With familiar dread caught in the back of her throat, she quickly dried off and dressed, bandaged her arms, and ensured that the bath contained no telling pink residue.

  She looked at her watch. It was almost midnight, and Scott wasn't home. Feeling completed drained, Isabelle fell into bed and was quickly asleep.

  She woke at three in the morning when Scott rolled into bed, and registered the alcohol and cigarette smoke on his breath. She tried to forget about it, at least until morning. She slept fitfully, tossing and turning until five, when she finally admitted defeat and rose, red-eyed and exhausted.

  In the early morning cool, when each day began with a promise, Isabelle could almost convince herself that her life was the one she wanted to be living.

  * * * *

  Senator David Winters enjoyed the finer things in life: a fine bourbon, a hand-rolled cigar, and clothes crafted
in Italy. Unfortunately, such things cost money, and Winters' trust fund had all but dried up.

  That was why he did deals with lobbyists that weren't entirely legal. More than his love of fine things was the burning fire of his ambition to be the president. This was another reason he did shady deals: to obtain financial backing to enable him to run. It also assured him the support of whichever group he'd dealt with, which would result in tangible votes during the election. In the meantime, he used his power and reputation to achieve things that the groups themselves would have had trouble doing.

  The most recent case was the inclusion and passing of an assisted suicide provision in the Health Reform Bill, on behalf of a group of people who believed in the ideals of eugenics. Prior to that, he'd removed a secretary of the Smithsonian who'd converted to Christianity and had wanted the biblical account of creation included in the museum, on behalf of an organization devoted to atheism and the purity of science.

  Winters himself didn't particularly care for the agenda of any group he dealt with, except with one caveat. Equal to his love of money and power was his hatred of religion, particularly Christianity. If the group he supported was sufficiently cashed up and opposed in some way to Christianity, then he was your man.

  This morning, he had arranged a meeting with a man named George Cartwright. The man represented an organization devoted to the separation of church and state, and in Cartwright's opinion, the divide was not deep enough in the United States of America. He needed the influence of a powerful senator to champion his cause, and in return, his wealthy backers promised half a million dollars to the bank account of Winters.

  Whistling to himself, Winters arrived at the exclusive restaurant close to Capitol Hill, where discretion was guaranteed. He was shown to his usual table, a private table where discussions couldn't be overheard.

  A few minutes later, George Cartwright arrived. He was a tall, well-built man who looked like he'd once been a college quarterback and was now tending toward fat. He favored conservatively cut suits and managed to blend into the background effortlessly, which was precisely what he sought to do.