Pieces of Light

by Julie Cave

  She held the legal file up high, as if it were a hard-won trophy. The press was enthralled and flash bulbs popped like fireworks. After a couple of minutes, Senator Winters took Elena by the elbow and motioned for her to walk up the stairs of the courthouse.

  Though the courthouse was busy and filled with harried lawyers and clerks, it was a place where they could talk without interruption. "Nicely done," said Winters in a low voice. "A call to arms is always a good strategy."

  Elena smiled, showing perfect teeth. "Are you happy that I didn't mention you in my speech?"

  "My presence was enough," said Winters. They waded through distracted lawyers on cell phones, clerks with armfuls of paper, and thoroughly confused citizens attempting to find their way through the maze of corridors and small rooms.

  "What is the plan once the lawsuit is filed?" asked Elena.

  "We gather support," said Winters. "We need noisy people willing to march, gather, and yell on our behalf. The media will love it. We need sponsors to fund the lawsuit and we need prominent people to support it in the media."

  Elena nodded as Winters' cell phone shrieked. "Hello?"

  "It's Cartwright," rumbled the humanist's voice. "Nice job. I told you she was good."

  "Agreed," said Winters, glancing over at his companion. She was pretending not to listen to his conversation.

  "Prepare for a media blanketing of the issue," continued Cartwright. "We are endeavoring to have the lawsuit become famous before it even goes to trial. We'll have experts on talk shows, radio interviews, bloggers, and everyone in between talking about it. You'll be sick of hearing about it."

  "I have no doubt about that," said Winters dryly. "What do you want me to do?"

  "Continue lending moral support, as you did today," said Cartwright. "Enter into discussions with your friend." He didn't need to say Chief Justice Pryor's name for Winters to know who he meant. "Find out if there are other senators or congressmen who might feel strongly about the subject."

  "Right," said Winters. He didn't often take orders from anyone, but there was no harm in letting the other person believe he was in control. For half a million dollars, he could keep his mouth shut — for the time being.

  He hung up and Elena looked away. "You'd better prepare yourself for the onslaught," he suggested. "You're the face of this lawsuit."

  "What will happen?" she asked curiously.

  "I suspect you'll be in great demand," said Winters. "The media will love you. You'll have all kinds of anti-religious groups wanting to talk to you. They'll probably ask you to support some of their agendas, but I'd stick to this one if I were you."

  Elena nodded and seemed to be fantasizing about being famous. Winters wanted to roll his eyes. "Be prepared for the hostility, too," he added. "Not everyone is going to be receptive to your message; there are many who disagree with you. They can be loud and insistent."

  "You mean the religious organizations whose funding we're seeking to strip?" Elena asked.

  "Yes, but they'll have lots of support from groups that aren't even necessarily religious," said Winters. "And, as you said, they are well-funded and powerful. Let me know if you get any death threats."

  "Death threats?" Elena suddenly looked shocked. "Are you serious?"

  Winters enjoyed the fear on her face. "Sure. Did you think this wouldn't be controversial?"

  "But ... what do ... I mean ...," stuttered Elena, suddenly realizing her mission.

  "You'll work it out," said Winters, tiring of the game.

  He turned and strode from the courthouse, leaving Elena in his wake.

  * * * *

  On Sunday morning, as venomous heat spilled over the eastern horizon, the bomber drove the school bus containing four hundred pounds of ANFO explosives carefully toward Manassas. He took a risk and left in daylight, hoping that his neighbors would take no notice of him. He knew that when the media reports came flooding in, if they'd seen the bus, they might connect him to the bombing. However, their houses were quiet and still and he was relieved when he left his neighborhood behind. He wore mechanic's overalls, in case he was stopped for any reason.

  He'd timed the drive perfectly. He didn't want to be pulled over by the cops, so he obeyed the road rules impeccably. He didn't want anyone to remember him, so he was careful not to engage in road rage or make a mistake. He wanted to arrive at the church after the morning service had commenced, so that there would be nobody in the parking lot wondering why a school bus had stopped there.

  However, on the journey toward Manassas he realized he'd made a critical error. A yellow school bus, driven on a Sunday morning, was bound to generate interest. It was not a common sight, and he caught a few curious stares as cars passed on the freeway. He cursed himself for his oversight. It made perfect sense when he'd stolen the bus during the week, but he hadn't thought through the plan to its end. Now he would have to hope that anyone who saw the bus wouldn't take any notice of him, at least not enough to be able to describe him to the police.

  Everything went according to plan, despite his apprehension. Early on a Sunday, traffic was light and the bomber arrived in Manassas at 8:40. The morning service started at 8:30 and he allowed 15 minutes for latecomers to straggle into the church.

  The parking lot was situated behind the church, so none of the congregation would see him park there. Pulling his baseball cap low over his eyes, he drove as close to the church as he dared and quickly shut off the engine.

  Tense as a cat stalking a hapless mouse, he waited for footsteps or a voice, asking why he was there. But he heard nothing except the faint sound of music and singing coming from the church. When he dared to look around, he didn't see a soul.

  He walked out of the parking lot, using SUVs and minivans as shields, just in case someone caught a glimpse of him. At the edge of the church property, he stopped and listened hard, taking one last look. There was no indication that anyone had seen him, so he continued walking down the street and into an alleyway behind several alfresco cafes. A Dumpster stood in the deserted alley, servicing the cafes. He eyed the dumpster, thinking about whether to take off the overalls now. He didn't want to waste time now, so he continued to a sidewalk table at the café nearest the church.

  Again, the vantage point was crucial. He wouldn't see the blast, but he'd see the acrid plume of smoke rise above the buildings. He ordered a cappuccino he knew he wouldn't drink, found a complimentary copy of the Post, and settled back in his chair. When the waiter had left him, and there was little activity nearby, he took out the cell phone and pressed the talk button.

  It seemed to take an eternity, but finally a slight rumble made the cheap aluminum tables clatter. The noise of the explosion arrived several nanoseconds later, a deep, throaty roar that caused everyone to stop and swivel their heads. Seconds after that, a dark ball of smoke rose into the sky.

  As several other patrons did, the bomber jumped to his feet with a startled cry. He looked wildly around, wondering whether people would flee or run toward the explosion to help. Self-preservation seemed to be the order of the day, with many cups of coffee left un-drunk on the tables.

  After several moments, the bomber followed the crowd. When they had dissipated, he slipped into the alleyway behind the café, stripped off his mechanic's overalls and baseball cap, and discarded them in the Dumpster. A few blocks over, he hailed a cab and traveled to the nearest shopping mall. There, in the vast parking lot, he stole an unremarkable Ford sedan and drove back to D.C., keeping to the speed limit despite his overwhelming desire to put his foot down.

  He ditched the stolen car a few blocks away from his house and trotted home, eager to watch the newscast of his bombing. As expected, the Sunday morning talk shows were interrupted as the networks sent cameras and reporters to the blast site as quickly as possible. When the first pictures came through, he felt a thrill break out goose bumps all over his body.

  The blast had left a crater in one wall, which was still standing despite the damage. Many of
the stunned survivors, preyed upon by the reporters, told of a horrible burning smell that blistered their nostrils and made their eyes water. Many experienced breathing difficulties.

  What of the casualties? the bomber asked, flicking from one network to another.

  A tentative count came through about 15 minutes later — 1 confirmed dead, 2 critically injured, 21 with an assortment of non-fatal wounds.

  The bomber felt the thrill cascade over his body again. The media had already begun to talk about the similarities between this bombing and the Our Lady of Mercy Catholic Church bombing, despite the police department's best efforts to downplay the connection.

  Contentedly, the bomber allowed himself to take the rest of the day off. The tension in his body had leaked away and he felt almost happy.

  His work here had been done.

  Chapter 6

  Dinah enjoyed Sundays. She went to church for the service at nine o'clock, spent time with the friends she was making there, immersing herself in the teaching of the Word of God, and then treated herself to a sumptuous brunch at a deli nearby. She luxuriated in reading the newspapers, drinking coffee unhurriedly, and thinking. On Sundays, she allowed herself to think of Luke and Sammy, the lost loves of her life. She reveled in good memories, even if they brought her to tears. When the bad memories surfaced, she closed them down like a steel trap in hunting season and wouldn't allow any further contemplation until the following Sunday. The staff at the deli seemed to have become used to her, a solitary figure who would sometimes weep into her coffee and sometimes smile with exquisite joy. Dinah thought wryly to herself that they had probably decided she was quite mental, in a harmless kind of way.

  Today, her third cup of coffee was interrupted by a call from Ferguson.

  "We've had a second bombing," he told her without preamble.

  Dinah immediately shifted into work mode. "Okay," she said calmly. "Where?"

  "Up in Manassas," Ferguson said. "The First United Methodist church was hit during their morning services. Where are you?"

  "Just finished a late breakfast," said Dinah, giving him the address of the deli. While she waited for him to pick her up, she visited the bathroom to check her hair and re-apply her lip gloss. A few minutes later, she laughed at herself in the mirror. You've never checked your hair or makeup for Ferguson. Who are you trying to impress? Stop being ridiculous. You're acting like a schoolgirl.

  Ferguson screeched up to the curb and Dinah climbed into the back seat. Inside the car, the atmosphere was professionally charged with the desire to catch the bomber before he hurt anyone else.

  "How many killed and injured?" Dinah asked as they sped toward Manassas.

  "One dead, two critically injured," said Sinclair, twisting around in the front seat to lock his stunning eyes on hers. She looked away, pretending to think.

  "You're not going to believe what vehicle he used to deliver the bomb," continued Sinclair.

  "What?"

  "A school bus."

  "A what?"

  "A bright yellow school bus."

  Ferguson snorted. "Makes our investigation a little easier, don't you think? Someone was bound to see a school bus driving around on a Sunday morning."

  Dinah nodded. The bomber had made a critical error, one that might lead to his capture. Excitement shot through her at the thought of arresting him.

  When they arrived at the church in Manassas, the scene of devastation was similar to the one at Our Lady of Mercy church. The burnt-out shell of the school bus was obvious, and the force of the explosion had destroyed the cars that had been parked nearby. Some had been tossed on their roofs as if no more substantial than a toy. The damage to the building looked less severe, with a hole blasted in one wall. The structure overall seemed to be standing up well, like a stoic warrior with a flesh wound.

  The choking, burning smell that hung over the bombsite was still pungent and immediately signified that it had again been an ANFO explosion. The scene was littered with debris, from twisted pews, destroyed hymnals, and the smoldering remains of a cross to the remnants of the pre-fabricated concrete wall.

  The uniformed police officer in charge of the scene spotted them and waved them over. He looked somewhat relieved to be able to hand the details of the case over to them. "We received the call at about 9:45 this morning," he explained. He was the spitting image of a small-town country sheriff, with a thick moustache and sideburns, stiff, formal carriage, and a slight drawl in his voice. His name was Robert Dawes.

  "An explosion had been detonated at the First United Methodist Church during the morning service," he continued. "Upon arrival, we discovered that a hole had been blasted in the wall of the building, apparently from a bomb placed inside a bus parked nearby. We searched the premises for further bombs. Once cleared, we assisted the paramedics with casualties and then secured the perimeter."

  "Good job," said Ferguson. He glanced over at a throng of media, jostling for the best position. "Could you have your men keep them under control? We'd like to go through the scene carefully, if you don't mind."

  "Of course," Dawes said. "We've been taking statements from witnesses and survivors, which I'll provide to you once you've finished."

  "Good man," said Ferguson. "Thanks." He smiled as the policeman marched over to the media and explained in ringing tones that they were not welcome to come any further toward the crime scene.

  Sinclair was already searching through the remains of the bus. It had fared a little better than the van used in the first bombing, but not by much. The windows, including the windshield, were blown out. The tires had melted. The internal structure of the bus — the seats, instrument panel, steering wheel, and side panels — had all been ripped from the vehicle and lay in various twisted poses in the debris. The engine block had been torn from the nose of the bus and lay, still virtually intact, several feet away.

  Sinclair quickly took care of writing down the identification numbers from the engine. Then he moved to the body of the bus, where the bomb was built.

  "Would the bomber have driven the bomb here?" Dinah asked.

  "He certainly wouldn't have made the bomb in this parking lot," said Sinclair. "So he had to drive it from somewhere, but it wouldn't have been too far. As we already know, ANFO is relatively stable, as far as explosives go. The bomb wouldn't have been too heavy and the bus wouldn't have had a problem carrying its load. Unfortunately, there are plenty of places within 30 minutes' drive of here from which the bomber could have driven."

  Sinclair picked up a scrap of heavy industrial plastic and eased it into an evidence bag. "I thought I might find this," he said. "My theory continues to be that he mixes the ANFO inside the bags that the agricultural-grade fertilizer comes in. Exactly the same plastic was discovered at the Catholic church scene."

  The crime scene technicians had arrived and looked like white ghosts in their protective suits, dusting for fingerprints in the wreckage, combing through the debris, and photographing the scene from every angle.

  Dinah, Sinclair, and Ferguson moved into the building. The wall that had sustained the damage was the back wall, and thankfully there had been a gap between the wall and the congregation. If attendees had been crammed right up against the back wall, the number of those killed would have risen dramatically.

  "Again, this was not a big bomb," said Sinclair softly. The wreckage of the church was somehow sacrilegious and Dinah felt a strange, maternal sadness, the way she used to feel when Sammy was sick and she would have done anything to have him well again. "He could have built a much larger bomb, given the space available in the bus. Yet for some reason — perhaps he is limited by his own ability — the bomb size has to be about five hundred pounds or less."

  "Do you find significance in the fact that this is a Protestant church rather than a Catholic one?" Dinah asked.

  Sinclair thought for a few moments. "Interesting. I don't know. If he has a specific agenda, it's not aimed solely at the Catholic church."

 
They stood in silence, surveying the wreckage of the building and its contents.

  "Come on," said Ferguson at length. "We've got to talk to the witnesses."

  * * * *

  Some of the survivors who had not been injured and witnesses had stayed at the scene, giving their statements to the police. Ferguson, Sinclair, and Dinah now began the task of asking them to repeat everything they'd already said.

  One lady described the huge noise and rumbling sound. She had been lifted out of her chair and flung to the floor. Dazed, deafened, and confused, she lay there for a few moments before an overwhelming desire to evacuate overcame her. It was very dark inside; the power had gone off and she couldn't see much. She heard people groaning and crying. She had crawled toward daylight.

  Another man expressed a similar experience: the air had literally moved around him, he said, picking him up as if it had formed powerful hands. He remembered the sensation of sudden, bright light, and then total darkness. When he had collected his thoughts and realized he wasn't hurt, he began helping those around him to get out of the building.

  Every survivor talked about the bitter fumes that hung over the wounded church. Their eyes burned, their noses scalded, their lungs struggled to find oxygen. Apparently, some of the victims taken to the hospital had suffered minor burns to their skin.

  Their tales were eerily similar to those from the Catholic church bombing.

  The next witness was a middle-aged man named Strickland who'd been walking his dog around the block. The church was in his sights when the bomb exploded.

  "I literally watched the whole thing," he said. His hands were still shaking from shock; his dog had broken the leash and bolted for home. He shook his head. "It's the weirdest thing. I actually remember seeing the school bus in the parking lot and thinking that it was odd. Why would a bus be at church? In the next instant, the bus vanished in the explosion. I saw a flash of fire and heavy gray smoke. I saw cars being thrown into the air and then I saw stuff falling out of the smoke, like debris I guess. I was so scared, I didn't know what to do. I just stood there, staring. I couldn't believe my own eyes. As the smoke started to lift, I saw a hole in the church wall and then I saw people, crawling out of the hole."