by Julie Cave
What about a shower? her treacherous mind suggested. The evidence is washed right away.
Her need to unfetter herself of tension outweighed her fear of her husband. Isabelle found herself in a hot shower, making cuts high on the front of her thigh. Again, the relief was almost instantaneous. Then, knowing Scott could get home at any moment sent adrenaline flowing through her veins.
She didn't start to relax until the plasters had been applied across her thigh and she was dressed in pajamas, ready for bed.
Several hours later, when she went to bed, she wondered why she'd been so fearful of Scott finding her out. In fact, the following morning, when pale sunshine revealed that Scott hadn't slept in his bed at all, she wondered how she could continue living this existence, this twin rollercoaster of fear and release, for any longer at all.
* * * *
Safely ensconced in his workshop with the stolen SUV, the bomber began assembling his new bomb. The beauty of building a bomb in a soft casing, such as plastic bags, was that he didn't need to worry about stripping the inside of the vehicle. He could just place the bags wherever he pleased.
He ensured that although the workshop doors were closed, the windows of the building and of the car were all open as far as possible. Even so, the fumes were harsh and he had to stop periodically to poke his head out of the window and breathe some fresh air.
It was during one of these breaks that he stuck his head out and immediately caught sight of his neighbor, Randy, skulking down the back fence. Randy saw him and lifted his hand in a wave.
The bomber cursed, knowing he couldn't let the other man inside the workshop. He left behind his work and shut the workshop door firmly.
"Yo, Randy," he called, trying to hide the nervous shake in his voice. "What's up?"
"Hey, dude," Randy replied languidly. "Not much. You?"
"Same." The bomber hoped the other man would leave.
"You been in your workshop?" Randy asked.
"Yeah, just messing around, you know."
"You got a car in there?" Randy's eyes lit up. "I love workin' on cars. I could help you out."
"Uh..." The bomber tried to think quickly. Randy could have seen the SUV arrive, and a lie would make him even more curious. "There was; I just finished it. Sorry, dude."
"Oh," said Randy, looking disappointed. "You want to hang out?"
Don't you have a job? the bomber wondered, and then thought that people could well say the same thing about him.
"Maybe later," he said. "I've got some errands to run. Gotta clean up my workshop."
Randy nodded and looked around. "Well. Okay. See you later?"
"Okay, Randy."
The bomber went back inside his workshop and spent several minutes watching Randy from his window. His neighbor took his time going back inside his own house, and this made the bomber frown. What was Randy up to?
The bomber wondered if he would have the nerve to kill Randy, if it came to that. His neighbor seemed harmless but was too curious for his own good. If it meant preserving his own freedom, then it was something he would have to consider.
The bomber checked the windows more often than he'd planned, hoping Randy wouldn't come back. As a result, it took longer to complete the bomb, which put him in a bad mood. He had his days scheduled to precision and he hated it when those plans went awry, for whatever reason.
As his dark mood descended, Randy was apportioned a great deal of the blame for the upset in his schedule. He decided that it wouldn't be a problem to take Randy out, particularly if he appeared at the front door right now. The bomber almost willed his half-witted neighbor to ring the doorbell. Killing Randy would probably make him feel much better. The doorbell remained silent and so the bomber turned to the task of writing his second letter to the newspaper. This time he wanted to make it more purposeful, to deliver a more precise message.
It took several attempts to get the wording just right, but eventually he was satisfied with the result. Leaning back on his chair, he opened a bottle of soda water to celebrate.
Soon he would sit in a church, waiting for the inevitable explosion. The thought of infiltrating the parishioners was exhilarating. Imagine that: the actual bomber, sitting in their midst. Perhaps afterward he could give interviews to the media or to the police. The thought made his scalp prickle with excitement. He might even, for the sheer thrill of it, sustain a minor injury. It would be so authentic that the police wouldn't for a minute suspect him.
He envisioned himself as an angel of justice, wielding a great and angry sword, dispensing punishment on those who deserved it. Who was more deserving than those who privately imbibed and publicly denounced? Who warranted destruction more than those who refused to practice compassion? Who could invite wrath more than those who spoke shiny words with hearts as black as tar?
He dozed in his chair. The image of a Gothic cathedral bearing fire and destruction became a dream, where he saw the congregation fleeing in terror. He saw people willing to set foot in a church dwindle, because of fear. He saw entire denominations collapsing under the weight of his judgment.
He dreamed of flames and heat, of wrath and justice, of revenge and cruelty, of a present-day Sodom and Gomorrah.
* * * *
Dinah met the two FBI agents at a Starbucks the next morning, a place that had become their regular haunt to debrief about the bombing case. Ferguson seized the opportunity to have a second breakfast, usually choosing a hot, buttery croissant to have with his grande latte.
Today they were joined by Zach, the lab technician who wore more bling than a rapper. Faux diamonds winked from his ears, fingers, and eyebrow. While they waited for their drinks to arrive, he absentmindedly rubbed his mohawks.
"I'm thinking of getting rid of them," he confided.
"In favor of what?" Dinah asked.
"I want to shave designs into my head," explained Zach.
Seeing he was completely serious, Dinah asked, "What kind of designs?"
"Constellations."
Dinah exchanged a look with Sinclair, who was trying to hide his laughter.
"Of the stars?"
"Yeah. Why not? Wouldn't it be cool to have the Big Dipper in my hair?"
"Very few people would get it," warned Dinah.
Zach shrugged as Ferguson arrived with the coffees balanced precariously in his arms.
"Zach wants to get the Big Dipper shaved into his head," announced Dinah.
Ferguson stared at the young lab technician. "Of course you do," he muttered. "Now, can we get down to business?"
"Sure," said Zach, pulling out a thin file. "You wanted me to analyze the clothing found near the two crime scenes. First, the high-visibility work clothing found in the trash at a mall; second, overalls and a baseball cap found in a Dumpster behind a cafe."
"Great," said Ferguson around a mouthful of croissant. "What did you find?"
"I have good news and bad news," explained Zach. "The good news is that whoever was wearing these clothes is our bomber. The bad news is that I have no idea of the identity of that person. Both the high-visibility clothing and the overalls contained particles of ammonium nitrate and some evidence of fuel oil, both of which match exactly the evidence taken from the bombsite. There were no hair strands, skin fragments, or fingerprints left in any of the clothing, however."
"So our bomber is risking being seen," mused Sinclair. "He's gone to a public place after placing each bomb, to detonate the charge and possibly to obtain some voyeuristic pleasure out of seeing people's reactions to the blast."
"In his favor, he looks very average and could be almost anybody," added Dinah. "It could also be a disguise. If he has distinctive red hair, for example, he might always wear a brown wig so that nobody notices this characteristic about him."
"True," agreed Zach. "It is odd to get no hair strands from a baseball cap. Most people shed their hair all over the place and don't realize it."
"What about the ammonium nitrate and fuel oil?" Fergus
on asked. "Can we trace that to a particular source?"
"I think so. I mentioned to you that both the ammonium nitrate and fuel oil aren't brand new, which leads me to suspect they've been stockpiled. It's much easier to trace new orders for ammonium nitrate in particular, because we keep close tabs on who is obtaining it and why."
"The Oklahoma City bombing was in 1995, and the laws surrounding obtaining fertilizer were tightened up as a result," said Dinah. "Surely our guy can't have been stockpiling since before then. That was an awfully long time ago."
"I wouldn't think he's been stockpiling since before 1995," agreed Zach. "I would say only that he has a source for the stuff, and he's been quietly taking small amounts that may not be noticed over a period of time. He'd probably be aware that moving large quantities of fertilizer is going to arouse suspicion."
"So we should look for thefts?" Ferguson asked.
Zach was silent for a moment. "Maybe. It'll be a large net, though. I mean, I can't tell you whether the fertilizer came from a farmer, a plant nursery, the city's Parks Department, or a mine. I don't know whether it came from Virginia or California. I don't know whether the theft would even have been noticed or missed."
"We're fast running out of leads," said Ferguson with a sigh. "I think we have to chase down every possibility."
He turned to Dinah with an imploring smile. "If I give you my remote codes for the FBI computer systems ...," he began.
"You want me to do your boring, monotonous work, don't you?" Dinah said, pretending to be insulted.
"Well, it's just that Sinclair and I have to go to a department meeting," Ferguson said. "And you can work at home without any interruptions."
"Okay, okay," she said. "Stop begging. You're embarrassing yourself."
Sinclair snorted.
"Good to see you haven't lost your attitude," commented Ferguson, with a quick glare in Sinclair's direction.
"Of course not. It's one of the things you like most about me," rejoined Dinah.
Ferguson rolled his eyes and heaved his girth out of the booth. Zach joined him, and while Sinclair and Dinah had a moment together, Sinclair leaned across the table.
"Do you want to meet up this weekend?" he suggested in a low voice.
Dinah's heart galloped. "Okay. Sure, okay. Can we get a coffee, rather than a drink?"
He nodded and smiled. Dinah felt like a piece of petrified wood.
"I'll call you later," Sinclair said, getting up to leave. "I'm looking forward to it!"
Dinah swallowed. "Me too," she said, which came out as a croaking whisper that he probably didn't hear.
Now that she had committed herself to a course of action, the anxiety kicked in. A thousand thoughts fought for traction in her head. What if he doesn't like me and we still have to work together? What if he is disgusted by my past? How could he possibly want to get involved with someone with so many issues?
She slapped the table and sighed. She would just have to concentrate on work for the day, and then worry about the date afterward. She was imagining the worst; what if it turned out to be an amazing date? What if they discovered they liked each other?
Dinah thought about this as she headed home. The truth was that she just couldn't see how a man would want to get involved with a woman as messed up as she. Once Sinclair realized it, she knew he would run screaming in the other direction, hoping to get away from her as quickly as possible.
* * * *
In the quiet of her apartment, with only the television providing some background noise, Dinah used the codes Ferguson gave her to access the vast computer networks of the FBI. She had never lost her proficiency at using them, and so she set to work immediately.
First, she did some general industry research. She wanted to know who would use ammonium nitrate in the highest concentrations. She quickly discovered that it was used in agriculture and mining almost exclusively.
The next question was, from where did the agricultural and mining industries obtain their ammonium nitrate? Farmers bought it from rural supply stores in large quantities, for which they had to have a license. Mining companies bought it directly from the manufacturers and also were required to have a license.
Many of the manufacturers were overseas companies subject to strict customs controls. It would be very hard, thought Dinah, to bypass customs for anyone who wanted to import a large quantity into the United States without a license. That would be at the top of their terrorism watch list.
It was more probable that the bomber had stolen the materials from a continental supplier or consumer.
Dinah checked the database for reports of the thefts of combustible materials. Just as she had expected, there were no reports of large quantities of ammonium nitrate being stolen from anywhere in the country.
As for fuel oil, there were no legal requirements to report large purchases. Dinah's only recourse was to search for thefts of a decent supply, and she found nothing. She couldn't even see a relevant case for siphoning, which might indicate someone stockpiling the fuel. With a sigh, she pushed her chair back from her desk and glanced up at the television.
An ad caught her eye. It was obviously brand new — she didn't recall having seen it before. The screen filled with an artist's rendition of God in the sky, with a long beard, surrounded by fire. An outstretched hand and pointing finger rained down fire upon a village of people, from which ran tiny figures, on fire and in agony. Thunderous music accompanied the scene. Words scrolled across the screen: "I punish children for the sins of their parents to third and fourth generations: Exodus 20:5."
The scene changed to a modern-day humanitarian effort, of choppers dropping food, wells being dug in poor villages, Western doctors treating the afflicted, children receiving gifts. The words across the screen now read: "Ensure that the child is protected against all ... punishment on the basis of status, activities, opinions, or beliefs: Convention on the Rights of the Child."
The screen faded to black, and then white words appeared in stark relief on the screen. Accompanied by a rich baritone, it said: "What would you prefer your tax dollars supported: judgment or freedom?" A website then appeared, with an appeal to donate or volunteer.
Dinah stared hard at the television, unable to believe her eyes. Of course she had come across opposition to Christianity before, but not on a scale so organized and widespread. There had to be a reason behind it. She began to type in the website name on her computer when the doorbell rang. A courier waited outside with a thick envelope.
Curiously, Dinah signed for it and took it back inside her apartment. She checked the return address and saw that it was from the office of Senator David Winters. He just happened to be her nemesis, a psychopath who took delight in arranging the murders of those who got in the way of his ambition. During her last case, he had sent her a bottle of vodka, knowing that she struggled with alcoholism.
With caution, almost expecting it to be a letter bomb, Dinah opened the envelope to see a thick stack of paper. With a frown, she quickly looked through it.
It appeared to be a lawsuit, duly filed in the Federal court. It was entitled Kasprowitz v. United States. Although Dinah had trained as a lawyer, the prospect of looking through the thick stack of paper to find out what the lawsuit was about was unappealing. Senator Winters had not made any notes anywhere on the document, and so Dinah carefully put it back into the envelope. It could wait for another day, when she didn't have a bomber threatening churches all over D.C.
She was suddenly struck by another thought. What if the bomber had stolen the ammonium nitrate and fuel oil mixture after it had been mixed? She had already discovered that many mines bought the dry mixture pre-mixed, and only had to attach their primary explosives. It streamlined the whole process, allowing mines to more efficiently blast through rock.
Her database search yielded a frightening amount of pre-made ANFO slurry being stolen from mines all across the United States. Despite high security, mines regularly reported the disappearance o
f bags of pre-made ammonium nitrate and fuel oil.
Dinah shook her head in wonder. She couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement. Her gut instinct told her that she was on the right path. Pre-mixed ammonium nitrate and fuel oil came in heavy, industrial-grade plastic bags, just like the ones found at both crime scenes.
Quickly, she sent a text message to Sinclair, knowing that he'd be in the department meeting by now, telling him of her theory.
She waited impatiently for a return text, getting up for a glass of water and pacing around the room, her thoughts spinning in her head.
Finally, her phone beeped and she read Sinclair's message. "Gr8 theory. Check mines closest to D.C. first."
Dinah couldn't help but pump her fist in the air. She was on the trail of the murderous bomber, and she was closing in. I'm coming for you, she told the bomber silently. I'm coming for you and I'm going to get you.
Chapter 10
It was a beautiful Sunday morning, although the temperature was tipped to soar above one hundred degrees again. Already the heat shimmered above the blacktop as the bomber drove the SUV laden with the bomb carefully through the strip mall parking lot.
The Gothic Episcopalian cathedral had been built on a beautiful lot, with green lawns and shady trees. During tough economic times, the parish had sold the spare land next to the church and it had become a boutique strip mall, with a gourmet deli, beauty salon, café, and bookstore. It was in the parking lot of the mall that the bomber intended to set the bomb.
The mall had been set back from the road, with plenty of landscaping to impress the well-to-do suburbanites. It meant that the parking lot abutted the church, which was built forward on its lot.
The bomber parked the SUV at the farthest end of the lot, backing in so that the payload was closest to the church wall.
He climbed out of the vehicle, looking around to see whether anyone had noticed him. There were few people around this early in the morning; the church congregation wouldn't begin arriving for another half-hour.
To make it look like he had legitimate business in the mall, and to kill time, the bomber browsed through the bookstore, which also sold gifts and home wares. Once he'd had his fill, he ordered a coffee at the cafe and sat at a table that offered him a partial view of the cathedral.