Pieces of Light

by Julie Cave

  Tears formed in his eyes. "It was pitiful, seeing that. Then I called 911."

  "Did you see any movement around the bus before it exploded?" Sinclair asked. "Someone walking away from it or out of the parking lot, for example?"

  "No," said Strickland. "It was pretty quiet this morning. I just remember the bus because it was hard to miss."

  "While you were out walking," continued Sinclair, "did you see the bus driving around?"

  "No, sorry," said Strickland, shaking his head.

  Other witnesses had only heard the explosion and come running from their homes. Frustratingly, nobody had seen the bus arrive at the church nor who had been driving it.

  "He had to get out of the bus and walk away," said Dinah, after what seemed like the millionth useless interview. "He had to drive the bus into the lot. How is it that nobody saw him?"

  "Somebody saw him," said Sinclair confidently. "Someone had to see him. They just haven't put it together yet, or they haven't seen the news yet. Once they hear that a bus was used in the bombing, it'll click."

  The final interview was with the pastor of the church, Reverend Warren Unger. He was clearly shaken and disturbed by the bombing. His skin was pale, his eyes red and raw, and his voice raspy. Dinah wondered if he shouldn't be at the hospital himself.

  "I was leading the music," he told them. "I play the guitar. It was just another Sunday, everything was going so well."

  His lower lip quivered and it took a moment for him to compose himself. "Right in the middle of the third song," he continued, "I looked up for a moment. Something caught my eye, I think, and I saw a fireball tear through the wall. I heard a loud, roaring noise; so loud I couldn't hear anything else for a while. All the lights went out and in the dark I saw the wall collapsing, and people being hurled forward. The noise seemed to go on for ages — when it finally stopped, I could hear people coughing and moaning and crying. Then I just tried to get people out. I thought the building might collapse, I don't know why."

  "Do you have any idea why someone would want to bomb your church?" Ferguson asked.

  "No, I don't. This is crazy! It's like a scene from a war zone," said Unger, shaking his head.

  "Have you received any threats or is there anyone you know who wishes you harm?" Ferguson pressed.

  "No. We're just a peaceful group of people," said Unger. "We try hard not to be controversial. I just don't know who would want to do such a thing!"

  "Any disgruntled congregation members? People you've had to kick out or something like that?"

  "Nothing like that for at least a couple of years now," said Unger. "Although there was one person to whom we refused membership."

  "Really?" pounced Ferguson. "How long ago was this?"

  "Only about two months ago," said Unger, scratching his head thoughtfully. "His name was Andrew Cochrane. He was a young guy, maybe late twenties? He'd been coming regularly for six months, claimed to be a new convert to Christianity."

  "But?" prompted Ferguson.

  "My gut instinct told me there wasn't something right about him," said Unger. "I thought I might be reacting a little harshly, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt. The problem was, he didn't follow any of the rules."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "He struck up a friendship with a young couple, just newly married. Several months later, he tried to entice the woman to have an affair with him. He also treated the children in the church badly, losing his temper with them and calling them names if they got on his nerves. We think he was the source of gossip between several families, causing a rift between them. In short, he was a troublemaker. When the young lady told me he'd suggested an illicit affair, I interviewed him about it and explained the Christian standards of our church. I gave him the opportunity to confess and repent, but he refused. He thought that he'd done nothing wrong, so I told him he was no longer welcome and asked him to leave."

  "How did he take it?"

  "Not well. He lost his temper, shouted at me, and called me all kinds of names," said Unger, shuddering at the memory. "Luckily I'd arranged for several of the elders to be there and together we managed to remove him."

  "Did he threaten violence toward you or the church?" asked Ferguson.

  "Not explicitly, as I recall," said Unger. "But I might have missed it. The whole scene was quite an ordeal."

  "Did you obtain contact numbers or an address from him while he was with your church?" Ferguson asked intently.

  "Yes, thankfully in my work laptop, which is at home," said Unger. "I can send them to you."

  The three investigators thanked the reverend and moved away to discuss the possibility of Andrew Cochrane being the bomber.

  "It doesn't make sense to bomb another church first," admitted Ferguson. "But he's the strongest lead we have so far."

  "It won't hurt to pay him a visit," agreed Dinah.

  Sinclair grinned. "Bring it on!"

  * * * *

  As the bomber watched the evening newscasts, a pall of melancholy settled down on him like a fine sheet of silken cobweb. He glared at the television and wondered why. Usually, on the day of the bombing he was elated. At least, he had been last time. Before that feeling could wear off, he'd start looking for a new target, and the anticipation was almost as good as the elation. What was going on?

  He paced behind his chair, listening to vapid newscast after newscast. None of them had anything new to report, so they rehashed what they did know in different words and scrambled to find interesting experts to voice their opinions. Nothing they said led him to believe that the police had any idea who was behind the bombings.

  So why was he so dissatisfied?

  He rehashed the day in his mind. In retrospect, the bus idea hadn't been great. It had been a brilliant scheme when it came to stealing it, but a yellow school bus on a Sunday morning had turned out to be a pretty stupid plan. There were any number of people who might have seen the bus, but none of them could have seen him. On the freeway, they might've had a few moments at best. What could they have told the police? A man, wearing a baseball cap? They couldn't have seen his hair color, eye color, or any distinguishing feature from their vantage point.

  What about once he'd parked the bus? He'd been so careful. He hadn't seen a soul, but that didn't mean someone hadn't seen him. Some bored soul might have been nosily watching through their windows for gossip. Surely, though, if that was the case, an artist's rendition of him would be plastered across the news. No, he was pretty sure that he hadn't been seen.

  Suddenly, it occurred to him. None of the newscasters were getting it! Not one of them was asking the question why! He stopped pacing and sat down. That was easily fixed, he thought. He could send a message to the television networks so that they understood the reason behind the bombings. Then they'd have something to actually report!

  He sat at his computer and began to compose a letter.

  It was important to word the letter just right. He deleted the first attempt and pounded his fist on the desk in frustration. It was too vague. It needed to start with a bang, to get their attention. A threat, perhaps? Yes, that was a good idea, a threat.

  The second attempt was somewhat better but ran out of steam at the end. He glared at his computer, as if it were its fault that inspiration was lacking.

  He realized that he was humming out loud — a Billy Idol song, of course: "Don't You (Forget About Me)." What a perfect way to end his letter!

  Instead of singing, Don't you forget about me, don't, don't, don't, don't, don't you forget about me, he changed to the words to Don't you underestimate me, don't, don't, don't, don't, don't you underestimate me.

  This time, he was inspired to go further than simply the chorus. Instead of singing Would you recognize me? Look my way and never love me/Rain keeps falling, rain keeps falling, down, down, down, he changed to the words to You won't recognize me! Look my way and never see me/Bombs keep falling, bombs keep falling, down, down, down.

  He sat back, g
rinning to himself. He'd set them a challenge: they would never find out who he was, even if they were looking right at him. He looked so normal.

  He reviewed the letter. He'd started with a threat, to get their attention. The middle was concerned with his motivations, most of which he hinted at without being too obvious, and the ending was a taunt, hidden in Idol lyrics. It was perfect. It would make them scramble and think, investigate and worry, and that was precisely the outcome he sought.

  Suddenly, he felt elated again. He was glad he'd found a reason for his agitation and a solution to soothe it. He again felt like he was top of the food chain: the craftiest, smartest, most cunning predator of them all.

  His thoughts turned to the next target, a bombing due in a week. He had learned from the bus fiasco that he needed to find a new vehicle that would attract less attention. He needed a vehicle that looked like it belonged, in any scenario, under any circumstance, a vehicle that engendered immediate trust, a vehicle that nobody would look at twice.

  When the idea struck him, it was immediately brilliant, but this time he thought the plan through from inception to execution. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that it really was a perfect plan, far better than his school bus idea.

  First, he would hand-deliver his letter.

  Then, it was time to hunt, to stalk, to find his prey and destroy them.

  * * * *

  The air was still and heavy and expectant, waiting for the storm that had been building to break. The clouds that had gathered on the western horizon were purplish and pregnant, the air thick enough to touch. The sun had been blotted out by thunderheads indifferent to its efforts to light the city beneath.

  Ferguson, Sinclair, and Dinah sat in an Italian restaurant that catered to the young family crowd, and tried to ignore the gangs of small, rowdy children engaged in the destruction of the immediate area. They had skipped lunch and so decided on an early dinner while they waited for the storm to pass. Dinah marveled as Ferguson wolfed down an impressive plate of pasta, while Sinclair, who apparently ran half-marathons for fun, ate a salad. Dinah had zoned off a little, watching the little kids run around with amusement, thinking of Sammy's delighted roar when other kids and mayhem were concerned.

  Finally, Ferguson heaved his body out of the booth and explained that he needed to call home. The atmosphere seemed to electrically charge the moment he left.

  "Listen," said Sinclair, when his boss was out of earshot. "I hope I didn't freak you out earlier. I didn't mean to come on so strong."

  "Oh," said Dinah with an embarrassed laugh. "Don't worry, it's not you. It really has more to do with me."

  "I only want to be your friend," said Sinclair, eyes gleaming like blue steel. "I just approached it the wrong way. If nothing else, I have a profound professional respect for you."

  Dinah chewed on her lip and thought about how she ought to approach it. "It's a little complicated," she began, "which means, I'm a little complicated. It's a long story. I'm not sure you'd be so keen to be friends once you hear it."

  "I don't know," mused Sinclair. "I like complicated. It's a challenge."

  "That's one way of putting it," laughed Dinah. Her stomach felt strange, light, and fluttery. She wondered if she could further humiliate herself by throwing up.

  "All I wanted to suggest," said Sinclair, "was some time away from the job, just to talk. That's all."

  Relax, Dinah told herself sternly. You don't have to treat every situation like it's a crisis. It's just a chance to talk!

  "Okay," she said. "Sure. I'm warning you, though. You probably won't be able to leave fast enough once you've heard my story."

  Sinclair's eyes bored into hers and she looked away, flustered. "Stop denigrating yourself," he said. "Everyone has a past, a story."

  Just how much do you know? Dinah wondered.

  "Anyway," added Sinclair with a playful smile, "I also happen to think you're pretty cute."

  Dinah immediately turned as red as a beet, and despite valiant efforts her brain couldn't think of a reply. She had clearly completely lost the ability to converse with the opposite sex about anything other than work. How could he find her interesting when she had nothing to say?

  Don't get your hopes up, anyway. Once he finds out that you are a widow, mother to a lost son, disgraced FBI agent, alcoholic, formerly suicidal, and a Christian, he will be so uninterested you may as well be a rock.

  Ferguson happened to return at the moment, just as the awkward silence stretched. He glanced between them both and sat down.

  "Dessert?" he suggested.

  "How can you fit in dessert, after all you've eaten?" said Dinah, relieved to be back in familiar territory.

  "Second dessert stomach," he said, waving over the waitress. "It never fails me."

  She shook her head and laughed.

  The storm broke outside and Dinah watched nature unleash its fury. While Ferguson somehow managed to eat a banana split, she was spellbound by long tongues of flickering lightning, thunder raising its voice in protest, and raindrops assaulting the earth. She'd always loved storms, but now when she watched one she was reminded of the awesome power of God. Storms were untamable, unpredictable, and completely indifferent to the whims of mankind.

  Ferguson's phone suddenly burst to life and Dinah was jolted back to reality, only to see Sinclair's eyes twinkling at her. "Welcome back," he teased. "Nice trip?"

  She flushed and burned and desperately tried to think of something to say.

  If anyone else had said that, I would have had a smart comment snapped back in a nanosecond. What is it about this guy that makes me forget how to talk?

  Thankfully, Ferguson started talking. "That was the night editor from the Post. Apparently they've received a note from someone claiming to be the bomber."

  Dinah was instantly alert. "Is it a fake?"

  "He thinks it's real," said Ferguson. "I said we'd drop by and check it out."

  They stepped outside tentatively. The thunder and rain had moved on, leaving behind a soft, steady rain that would vanish later in the night. The sun was trying to make a comeback in the early evening, light weakly breaking through the clouds left behind.

  Ferguson tossed the keys to Dinah. "Want to drive?"

  "You sure you can handle it?" she shot back.

  "I figure we'll get there quicker if you drive," he said. He patted his stomach. "I want to have a little nap."

  To Sinclair he said, "She's a maniac behind the wheel, but she's fast."

  "I'll make sure my seatbelt is tight," laughed Sinclair.

  Behind the wheel of the dark FBI car, rain hissing beneath the tires, to Dinah it almost felt like old times again.

  Chapter 7

  The offices of the Washington Post reminded Dinah a little of a casino: with no windows and plenty of feverish activity, there seemed to be little regard for the time of day or night. However, the newspaper was fond of clocks and several large ones dominated the floor, constantly reminding the harried reporters below of deadlines.

  Night had finally claimed the city as the three investigators were met at the door by the night editor, Ralph Haywood. He was short and bulky with thick black hair. Beetling eyebrows made him appear menacing, and he spoke in short, sharp sentences, as though he were a walking newspaper article. "Hand-delivered at about six," he told them, leading the way to his office. "Didn't read it until about seven. Got my attention then."

  The office resembled the aftermath of a tornado. Dinah could barely make out the chairs in which visitors would sit amidst piles of paper, newspaper copy, and assorted junk. "Sorry about the mess," Haywood said, pushing aside some litter to reveal two swivel chairs. "It's how I work."

  "Right," said Ferguson, exchanging an eye roll with Sinclair. "You got the note there?"

  "I touched it," said Haywood, handing over a folder. "Before I knew what it was."

  "Okay," said Ferguson. He opened the folder and the three of them hunched over it. Ferguson
and Dinah had taken the chairs and Sinclair stood behind them. Dinah was patently aware of the close proximity of Sinclair's head as he leaned over to read the note. It was typed on a computer and the writer was fond of italics and capital letters. It read:

  Dear Media,

  You should listen to me. I am the church bomber. I am responsible for bombing the Catholic Church and the Methodist Church. If you don't take me seriously, I will take out other civilian targets. If you don't report the existence of this letter by Wednesday at the latest, I will bomb an elementary school. You don't want to test me.

  YOU PEOPLE ARE NOT GETTING IT! You haven't asked why I'm doing this. Don't you think it would make a good story? Let me give you a hint. I don't like hypocrites and thieves. I don't like people who always let others down. They spend their time JUDGING others but they should be JUDGED more harshly than anyone!

  Don't you underestimate me,

  Don't, don't, don't, don't,

  Don't you underestimate me

  You won't recognize me!

  Look my way and never see me

  Bombs keep falling, bombs keep falling,

  Down, down, down.

  Sinclair whistled softly. Ferguson frowned and Dinah pursed her lips. There was nothing in the letter that hadn't been reported by the media outlets, but it seemed to ring true nevertheless. In any case, thought Dinah, it wasn't worth risking an elementary school just to engage in a game of pride. However, the Bureau might feel differently and there wasn't much she could do about that.

  "We'll need to take this with us," said Ferguson.

  Haywood shrugged. "Am I reporting it?"

  "We'll let you know," Ferguson said. "Stay near your phone."

  The three had barely left the office before Haywood began yelling at someone on the phone.

  They found a Starbucks nearby and sat down in the brightly lit store. There was silence as they took turns reading the letter again and again.