Pieces of Light

by Julie Cave

  The reverend had arrived, together with volunteers who obviously helped to open up the church and prepare for services. Slowly, the church began to spring to life.

  He sipped his coffee as the parishioners slowly began to appear, like ants coming home to the nest. Ten minutes before the service was scheduled to begin, the bomber stood and casually made his way over to the church.

  He was dressed smartly, in the style of an upper–middle class churchgoer, and he was greeted with a smile at the front doors of the church.

  "Welcome to our service," a middle-aged woman said through a practiced grin. She gave him several pieces of paper at which he barely looked. He was too busy scanning the seating, to make sure he would sit as far away from the doomed wall as possible.

  Inside the church, the air was slightly cooler and still. Overhead fans heroically tried to create a breeze. Hushed chatter created a low buzz in the cavernous space.

  The bomber found a seat on the opposite side of the church, and he made sure he was well away from the windows. In this cathedral, the windows were high and narrow, in intricate stained glass. Because the glass was probably as old as the church and therefore weak, he was expecting all the windows to shatter, not just the ones in the wall destined for destruction. He wanted to ensure he was well away from the spray of glass when that happened.

  A man in the pew in front of him annoyingly tried to strike up a conversation with him. He was too tense and edgy to carry on a meaningful discussion, and his one-word replies eventually encouraged the man to give up.

  The service began. The bomber heard nothing of it, but he could see there were plenty of latecomers. He decided to wait them out.

  His original plan had been to detonate the bomb early in the service. Now he decided he would sit through most of it to ensure the majority of the congregation was there.

  While he waited, he looked around at the faces of the parishioners, listening with rapt attention to the reverend. He felt no pity for them, only resentment.

  They were wealthy. He could see by the diamonds sparkling on fingers, the expensive leather shoes, and the exclusive handbags. Theirs were comfortable lives, filled with charity balls, lunches with friends, summer houses near the ocean, European cars.

  Angrily, he wondered if any of them had set foot in a soup kitchen or domestic violence shelter. If they thought about the poor and downtrodden at all, they had probably given money to them instead, not wanting to dirty their hands. Did they realize that across the city, people were living in desperate circumstances, not sure how they would feed their children or keep them warm in the coming winter snows?

  They were all the same, thought the bomber, trying to control his rage. They were supposed to love and take care of the poor and less fortunate. They were hypocritical and judgmental, probably blaming the poverty-stricken for their own problems. They sat in their beautiful church, with their expensive clothes and perfumes and accessories, thinking only about how they would spend their pile of disposable income.

  Oh, he'd enjoy detonating this bomb. He would watch their terrified faces, smug prosperity wiped off in an instant, replaced with panic and fear. He would enjoy this day of judgment, when he would punish them for their sins of hypocrisy and ignorance. He would rain down upon them fire and brimstone, fury and penalty, fright and wrath. He would enjoy every moment of it. They deserved it. They had ignored him when he needed them. And now they would pay.

  * * * *

  Elena Kasprowitz and Senator Winters had decided to kick off their campaign in Washington, D.C., on the streets in front of the Federal Court. The first wave of the advertisements had hit the airwaves three nights ago, and had generated a great deal of attention.

  Winters surveyed the crowd in front of them and was pleased to see several representatives from the news media in attendance.

  The American Humanist Association had handed out banners and signs to the crowds, which were now being unfurled.

  He nodded at Elena to begin proceedings. She took the microphone and called: "Attention those of you who seek honesty and transparency in our government!"

  There was a loud cheer and the crowd focused its attention on Elena, who wore black pants, a white silk blouse, and pearls. She looked beautiful and powerful, and that was enough to control the rally.

  "Today we rally against our tax dollars being used to fund organizations with whom we fundamentally disagree! Shouldn't I have a say in how my tax dollars are being used?"

  "Church and state — sep-ar-ate!" chanted the crowd.

  "The church seeks to conceal its influence over the government. They try to hide the pressure they place on our lawmakers! We are here today to tell our government that we do not accept this!"

  "Church and state — sep-ar-ate!" cried the crowd, waving their signs and banners furiously.

  "We require truth from our government! We require them to uphold the sacred tenets of our Constitution! We demand that they bring to light all agreements with religious organizations that use taxpayer funding!"

  "Church and state — sep-ar-ate!" they yelled.

  "Do we as a humanist organization rely on government funding? Do we require handouts? No! We raise our own funds and our own support! We demand that religious groups are required to do the same!"

  "Church and state — sep-ar-ate!" The crowd was delirious.

  "Our great nation was founded on the principle that church and state should be completely separated. Yet we have Christian groups in the pockets of our government, obtaining funding to proselytize! They seek new converts using our money!"

  "Church and state — sep-a-rate!" screamed the crowd.

  "Today, we say enough is enough! We will seek all avenues to remedy this situation. We will file lawsuits, we will demonstrate, we will picket, and we will use the power of our votes, to ensure that our government is called to account for its actions!"

  Having whipped the crowd into a frenzy, Elena handed the microphone to Winters and stepped back.

  "I want to implore you, my good friends," he began, his tone rich and mellifluous. "We cannot do this on our own. Even I, in a position of responsibility and power, cannot do it on my own. We ask you for your support, but also for your advocacy. Spread our message to your families, friends, work colleagues, and churches. Yes, I did say churches. It's important that you know that even churches recognize the need for separation of church and state. It is a rogue few who refuse to respect our Constitution! The more support we can get, the louder our voice will be. Cast your votes wisely during elections! Refuse to elect anybody with loyalty to these religious groups. Let your Congressman know that you and your electorate won't stand for such subterfuge. Speak the truth loudly and often!"

  "Church and state — sep-a-rate!" agreed the crowd.

  Elena took the microphone back and cried: "Let us march to Capitol Hill, where they must take us seriously!" With a roar, the crowd began to inch down the street, spurred on by enthusiasts positioned in the throng by the American Humanists Association.

  Elena turned the microphone off and rolled her neck backward with a sigh. "Are you coming with us?" she asked.

  Winters rolled his eyes. "Are you kidding me? I'm a United States senator," he said contemptuously. "I don't march for anyone."

  "Oh. Right." Elena looked awkward, not sure what to say.

  "I'll do some media spots," he said, so that she felt he was still on her side.

  In truth, Winters couldn't wait to get away from the throng. As a rule, he avoided the unwashed masses wherever possible.

  A zealous reporter materialized in front of him and shoved a recorder in his face. Winters was tempted to break the man's arm.

  "Senator, can we get a few words on today's rally?"

  Winters held the reporter's gaze for a few moments, an icy look that conveyed his disapproval of the man, his family, his profession, and his life. When the reporter dropped his eyes, Winters said, "Certainly. I'm happy to lend my support to this cause. I am a whole
hearted believer in the Constitution and the freedoms it affords our citizens. One such freedom is religion — in this case, the lack of religion. We guarantee the same freedoms to people who choose no religion. That is why it's a requirement of our First Amendment that church and state be separated. It's something that is not being observed as it should be."

  "You agree that it's not acceptable for governments to fund religious organizations?" the reporter asked.

  That's what I just said, moron. "Right. I have no problem with citizens who support such organizations to use their private funds to bankroll their programs. Public money categorically should not be used."

  "Do you...."

  Winters was thoroughly sick of the reporter. "I have finished commenting," he snapped, and walked away.

  When the reporter tried to follow, two large men in suits and earpieces stood in his way.

  The rally continued to snake through the streets, toward the bright dome of Capitol Hill.

  * * * *

  The service in the Gothic cathedral had almost reached its zenith, as bright as the noonday sun. The bomber chose a moment during the penultimate hymn, as voices soared toward the ceiling, to detonate the bomb.

  He pressed the button and it seemed to take an age. In reality, it was only a moment.

  With senses hyper-alert, he felt it before he saw it or heard it. A giant wall of hot air lifted him and then let him fall. As he was slammed down on the floor on his back, he saw the wall blow. It was an awe-inspiring sight.

  A great battering ram of fire forced itself through the stone, obliterating the blocks in its way. Other blocks, broken but not crumbled, were flung like pieces of Lego into the church. The sound came a nanosecond afterward, an earth-shattering sonic boom. The glass windows imploded with a high-pitched shriek, as if in agony themselves.

  The bomber, still dazed, watched people catapulting into the air. He saw fire licking at pews and hymnals and limbs. He heard screaming, moaning, and wails of sheer terror.

  Seconds later, the debris began to fall — chunks of glass, blocks of stone, materials from inside the walls and roof. Some of the wooden pews near the blasted wall had been splintered into long, sharp fingers.

  The explosion had finished, and in its place, an acrid smell hung in the air, as heavy as the smoke that obscured his vision. Despite light spilling into the building through the devastated wall, it seemed murky and dark due to the ammonia and smoke. There were sounds of the injured, groans and cries of pain. And somehow, surrounding these noises like a heavy cloak, shocked silence reigned.

  The bomber eased himself into a sitting position, acknowledging that despite his attempt to escape the bomb, he still managed to hurt all over.

  He suspected he'd have a very large bruise on his back, where he'd slammed into the floor. His head hurt, his throat burned, and his eyes watered. His head pounded viciously and he could feel sticky wetness on his face.

  Gingerly, he stood and surveyed the damage. He'd gotten off lightly, compared to some of the poor souls he now saw. He didn't feel remorse or sorrow at their plight; only the satisfaction of a job well done.

  He managed to get himself outside, grateful for the fresh air. Outside, traffic had some to an abrupt halt. People had climbed out of their cars, some still in the middle of their 911 calls on their cell phones. Others were gamely approaching the church to render assistance to the stunned survivors.

  After what seemed like an eternity, ambulances arrived en masse, screeching to a halt outside the cathedral, paramedics spilling out with stretchers and equipment bags. One paramedic approached him. "Are you injured?" she asked.

  "No," he said. "There are worse inside. Don't worry about me."

  "Sit down and take deep breaths," she advised him. "Don't move. I'll be back to assess you for shock."

  The bomber saw that those who hadn't been badly injured were sitting on the ground in disbelief or wandering aimlessly. Adopting their shambling walk, the bomber wanted to see how much damage had been done to the wall.

  The entire wall was missing, and part of the roof that it had supported had collapsed. The bomb had performed admirably.

  Police cars were now arriving in waves of flashing lights, which sent a rush of adrenaline through the bomber's body. Did he look guilty? Would they know?

  It became obvious that they didn't have any idea about him. They spread out like a swarm of blue ants, some checking through the rubble and assisting with rescues, others talking to the survivors.

  In fact, the bomber had to admit that the paramedics and police were well-organized and efficient. Though, he supposed, they were getting used to it.

  The police were instructing survivors to stay, so that they could take statements and so that the paramedics could assess them. The bomber knew it would be suspicious of him to attempt to get away, so he found a clear patch of grass and sat down.

  Eventually a paramedic found him and began cleaning up a wound he'd sustained near his hairline. While she did that, a police officer decided to take his statement.

  The bomber was proud of himself for holding it all together. He described his arrival at the church a few minutes before the service started, how it all went very smoothly until the second to last hymn. He described the explosion, how he saw it from the opposite side of the church. No, he had no idea who would want to do this. No, he hadn't noticed anything strange or anyone loitering around the building.

  The cop nodded and moved on, while the paramedic suggested he go to the hospital for observation.

  "No," he said. "I just need to go home and have a good sleep."

  After being cautioned on the dangers of concussion and symptoms to watch out for, he was allowed to leave.

  He drank in the scene one last time, savoring it and memorizing it for posterity.

  Still elated from his success, the bomber walked several blocks, then stole an old Ford Escort to drive home. He knew the newspaper would receive his note that evening and print it the following morning. In the meantime, he would watch every newscast with voyeuristic pleasure.

  * * * *

  Dinah Harris had taken special care with her outfit and makeup that morning. She wore a dark blue beaded top with cream-colored pants and kitten heels. For work, she normally pulled her black hair into a ponytail, but today she let it flow loosely around her shoulders. She'd inexpertly applied mascara and lip gloss and tried valiantly in church to listen to the sermon with a strange queasy feeling in her stomach.

  All because she'd arranged to meet Sinclair for a date after church at her favorite cafe. The queasy feeling got stronger the closer she got to the date.

  He was waiting for her, at a table that overlooked the street. She smiled at him and approached, struck again by how good-looking he was. His blue eyes were electric, she thought, like bolts of lightning somehow contained.

  He stood to greet her and leaned over to kiss her cheek. "You look lovely," he said. "You look much younger with your hair down."

  "Uh ... thank you," she managed to reply, through stammering lips.

  "Care for some brunch?" he asked. "I haven't eaten yet."

  Too nervous for breakfast, neither had she. "Sounds great," she agreed.

  "So what have you been doing this morning, on a rare day off?" he asked. She marveled at his ability to ease into conversation.

  "Oh, I went to, uh, church," she explained.

  He smiled. "I should have gone, too."

  "What did you do instead?" she asked.

  "Went for a ten-mile run," he said.

  The waiter arrived to take their order, but Dinah hadn't even looked at the menu.

  "A few more minutes?" she asked. To Sinclair, she said, "Wow, that's impressive. I'm up to about five miles."

  "Let's go running sometime," he suggested casually. "I'll run five miles with you."

  "I couldn't keep up with you!"

  "I'll slow down. We can have a cool drink and lunch afterward."

  "Well ... it'll be a rather le
isurely pace for you," conceded Dinah.

  "Actually, I don't care about the running. I'll take any excuse to spend time with you." Those blue eyes bored into her own, intense and spectacular.

  She turned red and couldn't reply.

  "Why is it so nerve-wracking for you to believe I'd want to spend time with you?"

  Dinah realized she'd forgotten she was in a conversation with a man trained in the nuances of interrogation: he could tell when she was nervous, anxious, dishonest, fearful, and uncomfortable. Obviously, she wasn't doing a great job of hiding the caldron of emotions bubbling away inside her.

  "I don't know," she said, instinctively trying to protect herself. A moment later she admonished herself to be honest. "Well, I suppose ... I find it hard to believe that you would want to spend time with me."

  "Why?"

  Dinah dared to look at him. "I'm sure you've heard the stories about me. The Bureau is hardly discreet."

  "I've heard gossip," admitted Sinclair. "But gossip doesn't matter to me. If there are things you want to tell me, I'll believe you. But I won't buy into water-cooler rumors."

  "Right. Well. It's a long story for a first date," Dinah said. "I don't want to bring the mood down."

  "I'm just glad you referred to it as a date," said Sinclair, grinning, blue fire in his eyes.

  Dinah desperately wanted to hold onto the hope of a first date, before it was ruined by the truth of her life. So she changed the subject.

  "Tell me about your family," she suggested.

  He spoke of a quiet childhood in a sleepy small town in West Virginia. His mother and father were both hard-working people who hadn't been able to go to college, but fiercely believed their children ought to. Sinclair and his older sister Carmen had been encouraged by their parents to excel in school in order to obtain scholarships to college.

  Carmen had won a full scholarship to Amherst College in Massachusetts, an elite college with an outstanding academic record. She had almost completed an undergraduate degree in science when she'd been killed in a car accident three weeks short of graduation.