Pieces of Light

by Julie Cave

  "So do you think it's real?" Ferguson asked at length.

  "I'm inclined to think so," said Dinah. "But it's only a hunch."

  Sinclair nodded. "I can't see anything that makes me doubt the letter. Equally, there is nothing in the letter that some random person couldn't have picked up from the media coverage."

  Ferguson sighed. "I tend to agree." He stirred his coffee for a few moments. "The Bureau has a policy of refusing to negotiate with terrorists."

  Dinah's heart sank. "You won't agree to report the letter?"

  "I didn't say that," said Ferguson with a wink. "I think I can find a way around both the bomber's demands and the Bureau's requirements."

  "How is that?"

  "The bomber didn't ask for the letter to be reprinted," said Ferguson. "Only that its existence be reported. I think we could get away with a small article under the guise of asking for public help."

  Dinah was relieved. "I definitely think you could get away with that."

  "What are your thoughts on the person who wrote it?" Ferguson asked.

  Dinah nodded. "My first thought is that there aren't any spelling or grammatical errors," she said, trying to organize her ideas. "This would indicate to me that the writer is reasonably well educated, even perhaps with a college degree. I sense the feeling that he thinks he's on a mission — the tone of the letter is fervent and passionate. He cares about wanting the public to know why he's bombing churches. Whatever hatred or anger he feels toward the church is very deep and very strong."

  "What do you make of the lyrics?" Sinclair asked.

  "Do you know whose lyrics they are?" Dinah asked. They were vaguely familiar to her, but the tampering with the words meant she couldn't quite figure it out.

  "I think it's a Billy Idol song," said Sinclair. "You know?" He suddenly began to sing the song: "Doooon't you forget about meeeee, don't, don't, don't...."

  "That's enough," said Ferguson, clapping his hands over his ears. "Please make him shut up!"

  "Well, I'm offended," said Sinclair. "I happen to think I have a good singing voice."

  "You'd be the only one," grumbled Ferguson. "Don't ever do that again."

  Dinah couldn't suppress her laughter anymore and was almost bent double with glee.

  "Et tu, Brute?" said Sinclair, pretending to take a knife from his back. That caused all three investigators to completely lose it and all that could be heard throughout the Starbucks were peals of laughter.

  * * * *

  Scott had made it home in time for dinner but had taken his plate to the study to eat there. Isabelle sat by herself at the dining room table wondering why she expected anything different. She watched an episode of American Idol without really seeing it. Instead, she was lost in her thoughts.

  She knew better than to confront Scott about his withdrawal from her. That would only serve to upset him even further. She needed to find a way to placate him. The tense atmosphere of their home was too much for her; she knew that it barely affected Scott.

  The truth was, she couldn't muster up the courage to go to his study. Ultimately, she knew that he was likely to tell her to get out or some other equally nasty scene. At the moment, she just couldn't face the coldness in his eyes or the contempt in his voice.

  She had gone up the main bedroom when she heard Scott's study door open and his footsteps on the stairs. Her heart quickened as she scrubbed her face.

  What's wrong? she wanted to ask. What is troubling you?

  Fearing the inevitable cutting reply, she kept her mouth shut.

  In fact, Scott didn't speak until Isabelle changed into her pajama top. Without thinking, she allowed the cuts on her arms to become visible, if only for a few seconds. "What is that?" he demanded, and Isabelle's heart turned to dead-weight ice in her chest.

  "What's what?" she asked lightly. Please don't have seen my arms.

  Roughly, Scott yanked up the sleeve of her top. He'd never asked why she wore long-sleeved pajamas or shirts even in the unbearable heat of this summer.

  He could now plainly see the scars of old cuts and the pink edges of recent cuts that were healing. He stared at them for several seconds, and Isabelle felt every single internal organ turn icy cold.

  "What is this?" he asked, gritting out the words from between clenched teeth.

  "Nothing, just an accident," she said, trying to cover up.

  "Did you do this to yourself?" The anger in his eyes dared her to lie.

  "Yes, but it's nothing!" Isabelle was full of sick dread, and fear thrummed through her.

  "Nothing!" shouted Scott. "What is wrong with you? Why are you doing this?"

  Isabelle didn't know how to reply and Scott took a step closer. "Tell me why you're doing this," he said, each word dripping with a threat.

  "It makes me feel better," she said lamely.

  Scott shook his head in disgust. "Why do you need to feel better? What is so wrong with your life?"

  Again, she was lost for words.

  "Tell me what's wrong with your life!" shouted Scott, veins standing out starkly in his neck.

  "Nothing, it has nothing to do with you," Isabelle said.

  "Don't I provide everything for you?" Scott continued, apparently not hearing her. "You don't have to go to that pathetic job at the university. You want for nothing! I never question you about your shoe collection or what you spend my money on. All I ask for in return is a normal wife!"

  Isabelle felt tears threatening but she suppressed them viciously. Tears only angered Scott further.

  "I am normal," she gasped. "I am."

  "No normal person I know attacks themselves with a knife," snapped Scott. "Are you trying to completely humiliate me?"

  Isabelle didn't know what he meant but she couldn't meet his eyes.

  "Remember the charity ball?" Scott said. "The two-hundred-bucks a plate charity ball? The one in a week?"

  Suddenly, she remembered.

  "So you're planning to turn up to the ball with all your scars on display, are you? Everyone will be talking about you, pitying you and worse, pitying me! But I suppose that's exactly what you want, isn't it?"

  "I can use makeup," she protested. "No one will know, I swear!"

  Please stop, please stop, you're hurting my heart, you're crushing my soul.

  "I had no idea what a useless freak you really are," Scott said, his voice quiet again. "Who cuts themselves, causes themselves pain, to feel better, for pity's sake?"

  "You don't understand," said Isabelle. "Please, I don't know what else to do."

  "Here's a thought," said Scott, voice like acid. "Try acting like a normal person." He shook his head in disgust. "So you got attention? That's what you really want, isn't it? You want me to notice and worry about you and take care of you?"

  Shame was like a torrent of water, pouring over her until she was completely drenched in it.

  "Well, it's not going to work," he continued coldly. "You're an adult, you can sort this stuff out yourself. I'm not going to tiptoe around your precious mental status, hoping that everything is okay."

  Scott suddenly took her wrist and squeezed.

  "You listen to me carefully," he breathed. "If I see one more cut on your arm, I'm going to kick your butt to the curb, you understand? I'm sick of this drama and I'm not going to put up with it. One more cut, you're out. Get it?"

  And all Isabelle could think, dripping with humiliation, was: He didn't say anything about my legs! It'll be okay, I can still cut my legs!

  Scott stormed downstairs and Isabelle was left alone, her body filled with stress. If ever there was a time she wanted to release the pain inside her, it was now. She wondered if she dared to do it. Scott's threats were never empty — if he said that he'd kick her out, he meant exactly that. She just couldn't take the risk of Scott finding her, doing it now.

  She had to make do with digging her fingernails into her own skin, into her hairline, as hard as she could. The pain wasn't enough, not as good as the sweet song of the raz
or blade, but oh, it still reminded her she was alive.

  * * * *

  The bomber, at peace with himself again, used a stolen Toyota to scout for a new church. It was important that he never be seen in the same vehicle twice, in case he was identified. Every time he left the house, he stole a different car and dumped it after he'd finished with it.

  The heat hung in the air, almost visible, and the humidity climbed with each passing hour. Soon, in the old Toyota with no air conditioning, he was sweaty, hot, and miserable. He wouldn't let it deter him, though; he had an important task to do.

  He had in his mind what he wanted to find, but it was proving difficult in reality. He realized his mistake halfway through the morning, as the relentless sun climbed toward its zenith. He needed to look in more affluent suburbs for the type of church he wanted. The poorer suburbs wouldn't have been able to afford to build such a structure.

  He turned the car around and headed south, toward Kalorama Heights and Columbia Heights. He needed a wealthy parish, one that would have spared no penny in building their church.

  He found it off Wyoming Ave. NW, and when he laid his eyes upon it, he knew that it was the one. An Episcopalian church, it was actually a cathedral. It was Gothic in design, intricately carved with stone, and magnificent as it rose into the sky. The small surrounding gardens were immaculately tended. There was no parking lot, but a strip mall next door provided parking spaces right up to the side wall of the church.

  He drove around the site several times, trying to judge it from every angle. He could park the bomb reasonably close to the side wall. The stone structure would be reasonably strong, and certainly as well built as any 19th-century building, but it would not withstand the power of a fertilizer bomb. He envisaged the wall missing, a great smoking wound right in the heart of the church.

  This time, he had a daring plan. He was becoming more comfortable in his role as the bomber, and this time he intended to pretend to be a parishioner. He understood the power of the bomb, and he knew how to protect himself from it. This time he wanted to experience his own bombing.

  It was risky, it was audacious, it was crazy. Nobody would suspect someone who went to the church as the bomber. He would be a victim, along with everyone else.

  He couldn't keep the smile from his face. Sometimes his own genius surprised even himself.

  He cruised around the quiet suburb until he found a shopping mall, where he ditched the old Toyota. Then he started looking for a new vehicle, the one in which he would build his bomb.

  It wouldn't be as obvious as a school bus this time. It wouldn't be a white van either. He had to pass himself off as a family man, a quiet church man who worked hard at his job during the week and spent time with his family on weekends. He needed a big SUV.

  He trotted around the parking lot of the mall for seemingly endless hours, growing hotter and sweatier by the moment. Then he spotted it, a lovely deep-red Ford Expedition, with plenty of room. He knew that it could seat up to eight people, but what he wanted to do was make sure that it could transport a four-hundred-pound bomb.

  The bomber had to wait for a mother nearby to load the groceries into her car, which seemed to take an age. At one point, he wanted to help her if only to hurry her up, but it would mean that she would remember him. Finally, when she'd driven off and the parking lot was empty again, he set about stealing the Expedition.

  It was a lovely ride, he thought. It was big and sturdy, perfect for his purposes. As he drove it home, he knew that he'd made the right choice.

  Once at home, he drove the car into the garage and found the newspaper. He wanted to know whether his letter would appear in the paper and whether, therefore, he would be required to scout for an elementary school. He fervently hoped he wouldn't have to — he didn't want to target children.

  The authorities, thankfully, had acquiesced and allowed the paper to run a story. It was front-page news, actually, which made the bomber very proud. He read it several times.

  The story didn't print the contents of the letter but did mention that the bomber had called his targets hypocrites and thieves. It was a good start. Most people would get the implication: that he believed churches to be sycophants, drawing congregations and their money in with promises of inclusion and redemption.

  People would probably also get that he was angry — very, very angry — with churches and that the hatred he felt in his heart toward them was deep and ingrained.

  Carefully placing the newspaper on the coffee table, he turned his thoughts to the bomb that would mortally wound the grand cathedral. It was time to gather his supplies and to turn his attention to creating that which destroyed.

  * * * *

  As the three investigators finished their lunch, Ferguson took a call from the Manassas Police Department. They'd found something interesting near the church bombing site and they thought the FBI might be interested.

  Ferguson, Sinclair, and Dinah climbed into the unmarked car and drove back to Manassas. Now that the initial flurry of activity had died down, the church cast a mournful figure. Crime scene tape fluttered around the building, cutting it off from the rest of the world, and it looked lonely as it gamely stood, even gravely injured. Dinah could almost feel its silent suffering.

  Robert Dawes, the chief of the Manassas Police Department, met them at the site. "We made a few discoveries," he told them, his face very serious. "I wanted to walk you through them, one by one, and then have you draw your own conclusions."

  "Right," said Ferguson. "Lead the way."

  "Keeping in mind the location of the church," began Dawes, walking down the street. "I'll first take you to a small café, about a block away. It is here that a café worker remembers serving coffee to a man in overalls on Sunday morning, just before the blast."

  It was a quick trip, only about five minutes' walk away from the church. The sidewalk café was small and busy. Dawes waved over a young man in a long black apron, who was balancing several coffee cups in one hand. "This is Vincent," said Dawes. "He was working here on the day of the bombing. Vincent, meet Special Agents Ferguson, Sinclair, and Harris of the FBI."

  Dinah thought about correcting the notion that she was an FBI agent but decided it wasn't worth getting into.

  Vincent set down the cups and smiled. "Hi."

  "What can you tell us about the day of the bombing?" asked Sinclair.

  "I was working here, doing the morning shift," explained Vincent. "It was a pretty busy day. Lots of people like to have brunch here on a Sunday morning."

  He glanced at his audience before continuing.

  "I remember this one guy, for some reason. He was wearing work overalls, like he was a mechanic or something. Most of the people who come here on a Sunday are in casual clothes, know what I mean? It stood out."

  "That's an odd detail to remember," commented Sinclair.

  Vincent shrugged. "I'm a painter and a sculptor. I notice things. When I saw him, I had an idea for a painting of a working man surrounded by richer folks, laughing, living it up."

  "What did this guy do exactly?" asked Sinclair. Dinah pursed her lips. If she'd been questioning him, she might have tried to put the young man more at ease, express a little interest in his art.

  "He came only a few minutes before the blast," said Vincent. "I took his order, he sat at a table, and I had barely gotten it to him when we heard the explosion. There was a rumble, like there was electricity in the ground, and then we all saw the smoke in the air."

  "Do you remember his reaction to the blast?"

  "Not really," said Vincent. "It wasn't out of the ordinary. We were all shocked. Most of our customers left; I guess they thought there could be another explosion. My boss wasn't too keen to hang around either, so we locked up the café and went home."

  "The guy in overalls disappeared with everyone else?"

  "I guess so. I didn't see exactly where he went, but he didn't drink his coffee and I didn't see him again."

  "What did he lo
ok like?"

  "He was kind of tall, like about six foot?" Vincent chewed on his lip as he tried to recall. "I couldn't see his hair, he was wearing a baseball cap. I think maybe dark eyes. He was pretty ordinary looking."

  "Any distinguishing features, tattoos, an accent?" Sinclair asked.

  Vincent shook his head. "No, definitely not."

  "Thanks, Vincent," said Dawes, shaking the young man's hand. "You've been very helpful."

  He turned to the three investigators. "Now, I'll show you why the overalls and baseball cap are important."

  He led them to an alley behind the café where Vincent worked. Dawes pointed at a commercial-sized Dumpster. "That's where we found the discarded clothing."

  In plastic evidence bags, Ferguson, Sinclair, and Dinah could see a set of beige work overalls and a baseball cap. Both looked reasonably new and unused.

  "So what's your theory?" Ferguson asked Dawes.

  "We know that the bomber remotely detonated the bomb," explained Dawes. "I believe he walked to this café, which is not too far away but certainly well out of harm's way, ordered his coffee, and detonated the blast. Amid the confusion, he dumped his overalls here and left, thinking that nobody would remember him."

  "Why would he wear overalls and a cap?" Sinclair asked.

  "Because he was driving a school bus," chimed in Dinah, glancing at Dawes. He nodded at her. "He was driving an obvious vehicle on a day you usually don't see school buses. If he is wearing mechanic's overalls and he's noticed or stopped, he can explain that he's fixing the bus and making sure it runs well."

  "He stands out in overalls in this neighborhood," added Dawes. "This is a family suburb, where most folks have the weekend off and either go to church or relax. He was in working clothes, a bit of an oddity, and it just happens that the young man serving him coffee has an eye for detail."

  "I guess if we find bomb detritus on the clothing, your theory will stack up," admitted Sinclair.

  "There's one more thing," said Dawes. "We received a phone call from a woman who saw a school bus driving toward Manassas on the morning of the blast. I just can't think of any other reason a school bus might have been out that day except for the bomber, so I took her call seriously. She said that the driver was wearing a baseball cap, but that's all she could see. She was going toward D.C. at speed, so there wasn't a lot of time to catch a good look at him."