Pieces of Light

by Julie Cave

  "What's that?"

  "Separation of church and state is fundamental in ensuring religious freedom," said Cartwright. "Nothing scares our religious opponents more than the idea that their freedom to go to church and homeschool their kids could be taken away. Our message is that if they oppose separation of church and state, then they are limiting their own freedoms."

  "A scare tactic," summarized Winters.

  "Whatever works," laughed Cartwright. "I've done it before, in several European countries. It's worked brilliantly. I see no reason why it won't work here. In the meantime, I'll contact you when we need your support in the media."

  After Winters had hung up, he reflected on the sleek humanist juggernaut that was about to be unleashed on the American public and smiled to himself. This is how you change the world. You manipulate the media, blanket the web, and scare the public into believing your message. Then it is only a matter of time before Congress and the courts cave in to public opinion.

  Then, you elect a president utterly committed to eradicating religion. Like me.

  * * * *

  The elementary school from which the yellow bus had been stolen had contacted authorities, Dinah learned. It was an inner-city school and they thought the bus had been stolen just as the afternoon run had begun.

  The principal of the school was an African American woman in her early forties with an aura of stern authority named Anna Spoker. She let the three investigators into her office, a space adorned with school achievements. For a poor, inner-city school, it had certainly accomplished a great deal.

  Spoker watched Dinah glance around at the walls and said, "I require a great deal from my students. They may come from poverty, abuse, addiction, and neglect, but I insist that they rise above it."

  "It's very impressive," Dinah said. "Do you have problems with gangs here?"

  "Yes, big problems," admitted Spoker. "That's why I've set up programs before and after school, trying to keep my students so busy they'll have no time for gangs. It's a constant battle."

  She leaned back in her chair thoughtfully. "It's been said that a gang offers a person security, a sense of belonging, and a family. When I see where many of my kids come from, I can see why that's appealing to them. So I've tried to replicate the idea of security, belonging, and family in school programs. Our success rate is pretty good, but it could be better."

  "What sort of programs do you run?" Dinah asked.

  "For example, the gangs will offer kids a chance to earn money by dealing drugs," explained Spoker. "I offer them a chance to earn money doing other things, like washing cars, mowing yards, helping elderly folks. I spend a lot of time asking for donations to fund such a program, but it does work. Or if kids are passionate about theater or dance or singing, we encourage them to explore that and look for opportunities for them to perform."

  "You're doing an awesome job," said Dinah. "I only wish all of our schools were so committed to the welfare of our kids."

  Spoker smiled briefly. "I have motivation: my 14-year-old son was lured into a gang and shot dead during a drug deal. No parent should have to experience that."

  Dinah nodded, knowing only too well the sharp and exquisite pain of losing a child. "I'm very sorry," she said.

  "Anyway," said Spoker briskly. "Enough about me. You're here to find out about the stolen bus?"

  "Yes," said Sinclair. "Can you tell us when you realized it was missing?"

  "It didn't take long," said Spoker. "The drivers arrive about half an hour before the afternoon run commences. When the kids are let out, the buses are ready and waiting to take them home. We realized we were one bus down when we still had kids waiting, a bus driver, and no bus to take them."

  "Did anyone see the bus being stolen?" Sinclair asked.

  Spoker shook her head. "No. Unfortunately, nobody looked twice at a school bus being driven away from a school right around the time the afternoon run starts. We have 15 or so. The drivers themselves don't really take notice of each other, either."

  "What run would that bus usually have taken?" Dinah asked.

  "Northeastern suburbs," said Spoker. "I think I know why that particular bus was stolen, though. It's pretty simple."

  "Yeah?" Sinclair said.

  "It was the last bus in the row," explained Spoker. "They're lined up in the parking lot like a row of soldiers. Whoever stole it took the one closest to the gate."

  "Ah," said Sinclair, glancing at Ferguson. "That does make sense."

  She shrugged. "I see a lot of criminal activity around here, Special Agent. Over the years I've grown to understand a little about how criminals think. If I wanted to steal a bus, that's what I'd do."

  "Do you have surveillance cameras around the lot where the bus was stolen?"

  "No."

  "Anyone call the school or district about a bus that was out of place, or in an area it shouldn't have been?"

  "Not that I know about."

  "Anyone report a bus being seen on a weekend?"

  "I don't think so."

  There was silence as the investigators realized there was very little information that could help identify the person who'd stolen the bus.

  Spoker realized this too and sighed. "Sorry I can't be more helpful," she said. "It's such a chaotic time of the afternoon, and my main concern is that my kids don't get run down in the traffic."

  "That's okay," said Dinah, smiling at the other woman. "You've been very helpful. Thanks for your time today. I wish you luck with your programs here, by the way."

  "Thank you," said Spoker, standing up to show them out of her office. "I wish you luck in finding the guy who stole the bus. I guess since there are three FBI agents standing in my office, it's not just about the bus, is it?"

  Sinclair smiled and Dinah had to look away as her heart fluttered at the sight. "I'm not at liberty to say, ma'am," he said. "I think if you watch the newscasts tonight, it'll become pretty clear."

  Outside in the relentless heat Ferguson said, "All we've got on the guy in the bus is an eyewitness, who happened to be traveling at the speed limit in the opposite direction. Is our guy a ghost or something?"

  "No, he's just an average guy," said Dinah. "A very average-looking guy at whom you wouldn't look twice. I'm willing to predict that he would have come to the school dressed similarly to the other bus drivers. He plans methodically. We just have to be patient and smart."

  "I'm glad you mentioned smart," said Sinclair, with a wink at Dinah that made her stomach dive and roll. "That's where I come in."

  Ferguson rolled his eyes and groaned. "Why did I think having two smart alecks on my team would be a good idea?"

  The three investigators made their way in the car back to the FBI lab, where Zach waited with the preliminary findings from the Manassas church bombing. The pirate paraphernalia was gone, but Zach had coordinated his facial piercings to be twinkling green jewels, which almost matched the color of two of his mohawks.

  "Greetings, defenders and protectors of the free world!" he said brightly.

  "And you wonder why you can't get a girlfriend," muttered Ferguson, while Dinah stifled her laughter.

  Zach pretended to be insulted. "The only reason I don't have a girlfriend is because of all the hours I'm putting in trying to catch your bomber."

  "Okay, calm down," said Ferguson. "What have you got for us?"

  "Well, your guy is putting together a few distinguishing trademarks," said Zach. "Apart from choosing churches to detonate his bombs, of course." On his computer screen, he showed a three-dimensional figure of both the van used in the Catholic church bombing and the school bus used in the Manassas church bombing.

  "We can see a pattern emerging," explained Zach. "We've had two small bombs, both built within the heavy plastic bags in which agricultural fertilizer is sold — or at least similar to those types of plastic bags. I have estimated that he would use about eight 50-pound bags and he lines them up in two rows of four, very symmetrically."

  "How did
you ascertain that?" Ferguson asked doubtfully.

  "We can tell by the blast pattern within the vehicles," said Zach. "We can see where the individual charges were detonated. There is plenty more room in both vehicles, by the way, to stuff more explosives. He could have put in twice as much."

  He paused as the three investigators nodded.

  "He has used exactly the same type and brand of fertilizer," continued Zach. "The dynamite and blasting caps were also exactly the same, including their age. I mentioned last time that these were not brand new."

  "Therefore, probably stolen from a stockpile, like a mine," added Sinclair.

  "Right. Now we know that an individual cannot purchase large quantities of this type of fertilizer without a license," said Zach. "You have to prove that you are a farmer, for example. I checked as many databases and search engines as I could to find out if there have been any large scale thefts of fertilizer of this type, but to no avail."

  "You think he faked a license?" Ferguson asked.

  "That's one possibility," conceded Zach. "But one that's fraught with risk. My guess is that he probably bought the fertilizer in small quantities, from many different suppliers, over a period of time."

  "Wait a minute," frowned Dinah. "Aren't 50-pound bags pretty large?"

  "Well, to you and me, perhaps," agreed Zach. "But when you need them for their proper purpose — farming or horticulture — a 50-pound bag is nothing. I'm talking about orders of a thousand pounds at a time."

  "You believe he's been planning this for a while?" Sinclair asked, eying the technician quizzically.

  "I do," replied Zach. "Here's why. Although instructions on how to build an ANFO bomb are readily available on the Internet, you still need to have some idea about explosives to detonate them. The mixture of ammonium nitrate and fuel oil, for example, must be mixed in the correct ratios or else the bomb will fail. Too much ammonium and there is a deficiency in oxygen, resulting in a bomb that is inefficient. Too much fuel oil and the bomb will probably fail to explode at all. You need a lot of practice or a good teacher. This guy could have spent a year in the wilderness somewhere experimenting with the bomb until it was just right."

  "Or ...?" Dinah prompted.

  "He was taught by someone."

  "We strongly believe our guy is working alone," said Sinclair.

  "Agreed. His teacher doesn't have to be of the illegal variety though, does he?"

  "Just get on with it, will you?" said Ferguson, exasperated.

  "Anyone who works in a mine or quarry might have gained an expert knowledge, for example. Or someone in infrastructure, who has to blast a tunnel underground or through a mountain in order to build a road or railway line."

  Dinah thought about that. "If that's true, he could have stolen everything from his place of work — the ammonium nitrate, fuel oil, dynamite and blasting caps — little by little, over time."

  "And his boss wouldn't have known," added Zach. "But that's just a theory. I have no way of proving that yet. It's just something to keep in mind."

  "Okay," said Sinclair. "Any fingerprints, hair, DNA that doesn't belong?"

  "No," said Zach. "It takes a lot of tedious work to come up with that disappointing answer, by the way. There was plenty of DNA and hair from our victims, from people who go to the church and from people who work at the church. None of it was flagged."

  "What about the bus?"

  "We looked carefully at the instruments our guy had to touch — the steering wheel, the dashboard, the pedals, and so on. We found nothing. He would have been wearing gloves and shoes. If, on the slim chance he left a hair or fragments from his shirt, there is every chance it vanished in the explosion." Zach shrugged. "Sorry I don't have better news."

  Dinah wasn't surprised. Nor was she discouraged. The bomber had already shown that he was capable of making errors and of being seen by witnesses. It was only a matter of time.

  While Ferguson visited the men's room, Sinclair and Dinah waited in the foyer of the lab. Sinclair tilted his head toward Dinah and asked, "How about that drink sometime?"

  "Shall we make it coffee?" Dinah suggested.

  "Sure. When?" Sinclair asked.

  Oh, I have such a busy social calendar. I'll have to check for openings.

  "After work sometime," said Dinah, after a brief pause. "If we get the chance."

  "I look forward to it," said Sinclair, his lips close to her ear.

  Dinah's whole face turned hot and red, and her ear burned where his breath had touched her.

  How she would actually carry on a conversation with him, she did not know.

  Chapter 9

  Late afternoon turned to early evening and the sun hid behind a bank of thunderheads. Isabelle waited on the back deck, wondering if Scott would come home tonight. He seldom bothered to tell her.

  Isabelle thought of her childhood years, when she and her family had waited for her father to come home. The underlying fear was always whether he'd be in a good mood or a bad mood. If it happened to be a bad mood, things usually went downhill from there.

  Generally though, her father had simply been an unpleasant man at home, and became worse when he'd been drinking.

  She recalled her first piano recital. She had been desperate for her father to recognize her, to praise her, to even acknowledge her. She'd chosen her outfit several weeks beforehand. She had played well and had earned several accolades. At the end of the recital, when she joined her parents, she had turned her glowing face up to look at him, urgently seeking his approval.

  "Glad that's over," he'd muttered. "Nearly fell asleep."

  He hadn't needed to say anything else: Isabelle had been crushed. Although her mother had fussed over her and complimented her, nothing could have made up for the devastation she'd felt at the hands of her father's cruel remark.

  She remembered dreading the weekends. On Friday and Saturday nights, her father would watch sports — it didn't matter what — and steadily drink bottles of Coors. The more he drank, the colder and quieter the house became as his wife and children realized what this meant. It didn't matter that Rosa put the kids to bed earlier than usual. Isabelle would lie awake listening to the TV being switched off after the game.

  He would start on Rosa, picking a fight, finding fault with something. It didn't matter how she reacted, whether with tears, silence, or assertiveness, it always ended with a sharp slap or dull thud and a muffled cry of pain. Rosa could escape with no more than a backhand across the face if he hadn't had too much to drink. When he was very drunk, though, she would usually cop a vicious punch to the small of her back or stomach. Many times, she would sport a black eye or swollen lip for the rest of the weekend.

  Then the heavy footsteps would sound up the stairs and Isabelle would start sweating, knowing that he hadn't yet finished for the night. He would choose between her or Michael, depending on who he imagined had been naughtier. He knew they were both awake, waiting. Isabelle would curl herself into a ball as small as possible, wondering how she would ever escape him.

  "This hurts me more than it hurts you," he always began regretfully, "but you need to learn your lesson." Isabelle and Michael never knew what the lesson was, or what they had done wrong. She just remembered the leather belt descending on her legs and back with ruthless efficiency. Crying or yelling always resulted in a longer thrashing, so she learned to keep silent, bite back the pain, and hold back the tears until he had gone.

  Isabelle remembered the guilty relief she felt when she heard her brother's door open. After it was over, Michael would sneak across the hall and crawl into bed with her. He would lie shaking next to her, his small body shuddering with sobs until he fell asleep.

  There were times when the children would make legitimate mistakes and their father would fly into a temper. In many ways, this was more frightening that the weekend thrashings because he was so volatile when enraged that they could never be sure he wouldn't go too far. Once when Michael had spilled a full carton of milk,
his father had thrown him clear across the room and broken Michael's collarbone. When he had caught Isabelle in a white lie, he had dragged her by the hair and she had ended up with a bald patch where he had torn her hair out.

  Yet in public, at church, at work, and with friends, Reginald was the most charming, thoughtful, and attentive man. He treated Rosa with tenderness and respect. He pretended to be great friends with Michael and Isabelle. There was nothing he wouldn't do for someone in need. He volunteered hundreds of hours a year at church, helping to run services or maintain the grounds and building.

  Isabelle knew that most people had no idea what went on behind their closed doors. With the hindsight of an adult, a nagging question played at the back of her mind: did they really not know? Could they really not see Rosa's black eye or bruised face? Did they really not notice that his children flinched every time he made a sudden movement?

  With a start, Isabelle realized that she hadn't fixed dinner, and that if Scott did come home, he would be very upset with her.

  She made Spanish chicken paella, a rice dish with chicken pieces and broth, peppers, onions, garlic, tomatoes, and plenty of spice. Once again, she ate sitting alone at the dining room table, listening for the sound of a car in the driveway.

  Then she cleaned up the kitchen, just in case Scott caught sight of the mess. As each hour passed, her agitation grew. Her skin seemed too small for her, like she was a fat sausage about to burst out of its casing. Her blood was too hot. Her head pounded with the pressure. Her fingers itched with the desire to release her fear and disquiet.

  Yet what would happen if Scott came home and found her in the bathtub with a razor blade? Even if he didn't see the cut, he'd know by the pink-tinged water what she'd done. She knew he'd make good on his promise to kick her out of the house. His wrath would be terrible to endure.