Pieces of Light

by Julie Cave

  Shocked, Dinah said, "Oh, Sinclair, I'm so sorry."

  "First," he replied, "call me Aaron. Sinclair is my work name. Second, thank you. It was the worst time for our family. My father particularly had adored Carmen. She had been accepted into medical school — she wanted to work in research, to understand more about how to treat epilepsy and Asperger's syndrome. They were so proud of her."

  "So all the pressure fell to you?" Dinah asked softly.

  The waiter appeared again, at precisely the wrong moment. Dinah asked him to come back.

  "Yes," said Aaron. "I felt I had to honor her memory by achieving everything she no longer could. I did law at George Mason University in Virginia before I joined the FBI. Graduation was difficult — I felt that my parents were wishing Carmen had been able to graduate, too."

  "I'm sorry," said Dinah. "I know what it's like to lose someone close to you."

  Aaron covered her hand with his. "I know."

  She felt a rush as his skin connected with hers. It seemed she could have stayed in that exact position for hours.

  The waiter appeared again, now somewhat annoyed.

  Aaron took away his hand to point at the menu, and Dinah felt an inexplicable anger at the waiter for ruining her moment. She ordered an omelet, willing the waiter to leave them alone.

  "Do you know?" she asked, curiously.

  "I've heard about it," said Aaron. "I don't know how accurate it is."

  "I lost my husband and son in a car accident," Dinah said forthrightly. Oh, the exquisite pain, she thought, it's still there. "Three years ago. I didn't handle it very well."

  "I'm sorry," said Aaron. "Losing a child must be about the worst thing I can imagine."

  "It is," agreed Dinah. "I miss him every day. I loved him so much."

  She felt the sudden tightening of her throat, signaling tears. Trying to fight it, she looked down at the empty table.

  She felt warm pressure on her hand again as Aaron leaned forward. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to upset you. I'm so sorry I brought it up."

  Dinah took a deep breath. "It's okay," she said. "Really. It's just still, after all this time, so hard to talk about."

  "If I didn't think you'd run away from me a thousand miles an hour," said Aaron, "I'd give you a hug."

  "One day," whispered Dinah. "I'd like that."

  "Someday ... soon?" Aaron asked, his voice soft.

  Dinah smiled in spite of herself. "Someday ... soon."

  Then suddenly, both their cell phones rang. Their eyes met, and they both knew, instinctively, that another church had been bombed.

  Chapter 11

  The moment broken, Sinclair and Dinah immediately made their way to the church, using directions given by Ferguson, who was already there. Even a few blocks away from the church, chaos had filled the streets. Police were trying to control traffic around streets that were closed down, while pedestrians who wanted to rubberneck were trying to get past police blocks.

  Eventually, they made it to the bombsite, where the vision of the damaged cathedral was tragic. Like the churches before it, it still stood, albeit minus one wall and half of the roof. Dinah could imagine at the head of the great structure, where the spire stood tallest, she could see tears slipping down the stone, tears of pain and sorrow.

  Ferguson met them and began talking immediately. "The bomb was blasted from the mall parking lot, right over there," he said, pointing. "It was built in an SUV and detonated toward the end of the service."

  "What are the casualties?" Dinah asked.

  "Four confirmed dead, another who has been rushed to the hospital but likely won't make it," said Ferguson. "It's the worst so far, probably because the roof collapsed. We haven't seen that happen so far."

  Sinclair wanted to see the vehicle in which the bomb had been built first. The SUV's destruction was almost complete. Around it, four other cars had sustained significant damage as a result.

  Wading through the debris, Sinclair picked up a piece of heavy plastic. "Same plastic," he said.

  "You know my theory about the plastic bags?" asked Dinah.

  "No, what?" Ferguson asked.

  "While I was doing your grunt work, I discovered that mines and quarries use ammonium nitrate and fuel oil to blast away rock," she explained. "To save time, they buy the mixture pre-mixed, in heavy plastic bags, called dry slurry. All they have to do is attach the primary explosives, blasting caps, and fuses. Dozens of mines and quarries all over the country have reported thefts of the mixture."

  Ferguson raised his eyebrows. "Does that fit the evidence you've seen here, Sinclair?" he asked the bomb expert.

  "Absolutely," said Sinclair. "I had thought that our perp had mixed the fuel oil right into the plastic bag of ammonium nitrate. As I've said, to get the mixture exactly right requires specialist knowledge. It is much easier for someone to get the pre-mixed slurry and simply attach explosives. It still takes a rudimentary knowledge to affix the dynamite, fuses, and so on, but anyone could find a website to find out how to do that."

  "Can you keep looking at these thefts of the ANFO mixture?" Ferguson asked Dinah.

  "Sure," said Dinah. "Here is another theory for you — what if our perp picked up his knowledge of bomb making while working in the mine or quarry?"

  Sinclair nodded thoughtfully. "It could well be an inside job," he agreed. "He might have managed to siphon the slurry mixture and dynamite away from the employer over time."

  Ferguson nodded. "It's a theory we'll run with," he said. "Let's take a look inside the cathedral."

  Inside, the church seemed quiet and solemn, having witnessed a great tragedy. It was immediately apparent why more people had been killed in this attack. When the roof collapsed, tons of heavy stone blocks had fallen with it, from a good height. Those unfortunate enough to be directly underneath would almost certainly have been crushed.

  "The bomb didn't look to be any bigger than its predecessors," said Sinclair softly, as if able to read Dinah's mind. "But this building wouldn't be as strong. That's why the roof caved in."

  Dinah nodded. The paramedics had finished tending to the wounded, and few victims remained.

  "Why do you think he's targeting these churches?" Dinah wondered, as they looked through fallen stone, twisted debris, and shattered pews. "Why did he choose these particular ones?"

  Sinclair took some time to consider his answer. "I don't know," he said at length. "I think he's chosen some buildings that wouldn't withstand the blast he'd planned. He hasn't targeted one of those big, brand-new, steel and reinforced concrete buildings."

  "Right, that makes sense," agreed Dinah. "But there must be four or five cathedrals similar to this one around the District. Why this particular one?"

  "At the moment, all I can theorize is that he chooses them based on the ability to detonate a blast reasonably close to the church," said Sinclair. "The first one, he was able to park on the street; the second, in the church parking lot; this one, the mall parking lot."

  The lieutenant of the police who had overseen the disaster response trotted over to the agents. His name was Peyton Spacey, a tall, lean man with a buzz cut and shrewd, dark eyes. "We've taken a lot of statements this morning," he began. "None of it helpful to the investigation, I'm afraid."

  Ferguson folded his arms across his paunch. "Nobody saw the bomber or anyone near the SUV?" he guessed.

  "Right. All of the statements relate to the bomb exploding," explained Lieutenant Spacey. "You know, I-saw-this and I-heard-that. Very similar to the Catholic church bombing, and from what I understand, the Manassas church bombing."

  Ferguson sighed. "Our guy is making mistakes, but not enough to identify who he might be," he vented.

  His cell phone chirped, and he turned away to answer.

  "My uniformed police will fan out, asking questions," Lieutenant Spacey told Sinclair and Dinah. "We'll let you know if anything comes up."

  Ferguson returned, a frown on his face. "That was the editor of the Pos
t," he said. "They've just received another letter from the bomber."

  Dinah reached out to take the keys from him. "I think you'll want me to drive," she said. "I'll get us there faster."

  Ferguson allowed himself a smile. "Alive, too, if it's not too much trouble."

  * * * *

  Ralph Haywood, night editor of the Washington Post, had instructed the staff to call him immediately if they received a note purporting to be from the church bomber. He would normally be asleep at this time of day, he informed the FBI agents and Dinah. That explained his gray pallor and bloodshot eyes. Furthermore, he continued, it was his responsibility to take care of the letters and liaise with law enforcement.

  Cynically, Dinah wondered whether Haywood simply wanted the credit for the story. He took them to his mezzanine office and made a show of carefully producing the letter. Again, it was carefully typed on white paper and read:

  I am the church bomber. I have just judged and punished a cathedral at Kalorama Heights. Remember, if you do not print this letter, I will bomb innocent children. Their blood will be on your hands.

  Note these figures well:

  $24,950

  $88,400

  $55,000

  Have they gotten their hands dirty? Do they understand what it's like to be poor, homeless, destitute, afraid? They are concerned with their own comfort, their own happiness, their own prosperity. For this, I make them pay. Vengeance is mine, says the bomber.

  If I looked all over the world

  These churches are all the same.

  Oh, their empty eyes,

  They pass the poor by.

  I'm left to judge them by myself.

  So let's sink another church

  Cause it'll give me time to think.

  If I had the chance

  I'd ask the world to judge,

  But I'm judging by myself.

  "Correct punctuation, spelling, and grammar," observed Dinah, "although his thoughts seem to be a bit disorganized."

  "What do the monetary figures mean?" wondered Ferguson.

  "Is he bombing them because he's dissatisfied with their outreach to poor people?" added Sinclair.

  "His last note called the church hypocritical and thieving," pointed out Dinah. "Are those lyrics, to end the note, or a poem he's written?"

  Sinclair narrowed his eyes as he read them. Finally, he said: "If the bomber is continuing with the Billy Idol theme, these could be lyrics he's changed to suit his own purposes. It sounds like it could be the song 'Dancing with Myself,' only he's changed the words to 'judging by myself' instead."

  "Why would he do that?" Dinah wondered.

  There was nobody to answer their questions. Only the perp knew, and they didn't yet know who he was.

  "Am I to print the letter again?" Haywood wanted to know.

  "Yes, but only its existence," said Ferguson. "As we did last time."

  "I can see a great editorial about this story," continued Haywood. "Can I ask you some questions?"

  Ferguson glared at him. "No, you cannot. We're not talking to the media about this case — particularly since it seems our perp craves attention. Now, how did this letter arrive?"

  "It was hand-delivered, by a courier," said Haywood, somewhat deflated.

  "Excellent," said Ferguson. "The courier had to pick it up from somewhere. Where is the delivery note?"

  Picking up his phone, Haywood ordered a minion to bring the note to his office. The courier company used was a seven-day operation, offering cheap rates and fast delivery.

  Sinclair immediately got on the phone to find out the details of the delivery and quiz the driver.

  As Sinclair paced around the room, Ferguson asked Haywood, "Have you received any correspondence regarding the first letter? Any strange phone calls?"

  Haywood shook his head. "Not specifically. We've received plenty of correspondence about the bombings; people want to know what the police are doing about it and so on. Nothing to do with the letter itself, though."

  Dinah continued to study the letter. She was intrigued by the monetary amounts given. Was it simplistic to assume that three bombings equaled the three amounts? It couldn't have to do with the damage inflicted; it would cost vastly more than $24,950 to repair the Catholic church, for a start. Could it have something to do with their charity programs, which the bomber seemed so disgusted with? Was he naming and shaming them with their donations to the poor? Was that why he was so angry with them?

  Sinclair hung up his phone and appeared irritated. "The courier picked up the envelope from a locker in the baggage area at Union Station," he said. "There was another envelope with cash to cover the delivery fee."

  Ferguson sighed. "So we have no idea where the letter came from?"

  "Nope," said Sinclair.

  "Are you sure the perp hasn't phoned the paper?" Ferguson asked of Haywood again, frustration obvious.

  "I'm sure," he said, palms up as a peace offering. "We monitor our calls carefully."

  Finally, the three investigators left and stood in the humidity outside the Post office. Dinah scanned the horizon for any signs of a thunderstorm that might break the oppressive heat, but the sky was clear.

  "If you have time, can you keep working on tracking down thefts of the pre-made ANFO slurry?" Ferguson asked Dinah. "We're going to take this letter up to the lab."

  "Sure," said Dinah. "I'll see you tomorrow."

  As Ferguson lumbered away, Sinclair quickly whispered, "Are you free tomorrow for dinner?"

  Dinah felt the thrill squirm in her heart and was about to agree when she suddenly realized that tomorrow night was her home group meeting.

  "Uh ... I can't," she said. "The following night?"

  He nodded and winked at her, slipping away gracefully to catch up to Ferguson.

  Dinah could do nothing but stand rooted to the same spot on the sidewalk, waiting for her hammering heart to calm down.

  * * * *

  The staff meeting seemed to drag interminably, and what dragged the most were the thinly veiled political speeches about who deserved tenure. Isabelle could barely keep her mind on the agenda, thinking instead of her mother's recent phone call.

  Rosa was having trouble reaching Michael on his cell phone, and her concern was bordering on hysteria. Isabelle rolled her eyes and thought that a break from their mother was an infinitely sensible idea. "He's a grown man, Mom," she said, for the hundredth time. "He can go away for a week or work hard for a week or even visit friends."

  "Without calling me?" wailed Rosa.

  "Yes, believe it or not," said Isabelle. "He's not a kid anymore."

  "He's just lost his father," responded Rosa. "It's not right for him to isolate himself. He needs his family!"

  "Maybe he prefers to sort it all out in his own mind, in his own time," suggested Isabelle.

  "Nonsense!" Rosa declared, who hadn't done anything under her own steam for a long time.

  Isabelle usually finished such phone calls with her mother feeling exasperated, but this time, she couldn't help but share a niggling worry about her brother. He was reticent at the best of times; perhaps now wasn't the best time for him to be alone. She would never concede this to her mother, though.

  Her own calls to his cell phone went unanswered. She sent him text messages too, asking him to let her know that he was okay. Compulsively, she checked her phone throughout the staff meeting, but it remained silent. Michael wouldn't have done something stupid, would he? Listen to me, Isabelle thought wryly, I'm worried about him hurting himself — something I do to myself as often as I can.

  "Isabelle?"

  With a jolt, she realized that the staff meeting was finally over and that her colleagues were packing up and leaving. Isabelle smiled and said goodbye, then checked her watch as she left the building.

  With a cold stab of fear, she realized that it was 7:30. How had the meeting dragged on for over two hours? If Scott was home and saw that she wasn't, he would be furious. In the car, driving as fa
st as she dared, Isabelle prayed that tonight would be one of the occasions when he didn't come home until late — if at all.

  When she pulled into the driveway, her heart sank like dead weight. Scott's car was parked there and lights blazed in the house. Isabelle gathered her bags with clammy hands and tried to muster some courage. In truth, she wanted to stay in the car and drive away, somewhere far away from her husband, her mother, the memories of her father, all of it. She could change her name and start a new life. Perhaps that's what Michael had done. If so, she envied him fiercely.

  She opened the front door and pretended to be indifferent to the fear and dread that engulfed her. "Hi, I'm home," she called cheerfully. "Sorry I'm late. The staff meeting went on forever. I thought I'd never escape!"

  There was no reply. Isabelle walked into the kitchen and found Scott sitting at the table, his face a mask of fury.

  "Oh ... there you are," she said lamely. "How was your day?"

  "Do you know what time it is?" he asked, eyes like chips of ice.

  "Yes, I had a staff meeting that seemed like it would never end." She moved around the kitchen, getting out ingredients for dinner, keeping her shaking hands busy.

  "In this house, I expect to come home and have dinner prepared," snapped Scott. "Is that too much to ask?"

  "No, but...."

  "I've told you that if your job interferes with your duties as my wife, then you must quit your job." Scott's words were tight and fast, like tiny bullets that found their way directly to her heart.

  She stared at him, dismayed. "You're not...!"

  "Yes, I am. Tomorrow, you will quit."

  "No, Scott, please don't," she pleaded, her hands stilled. "I love my job!" It's the only time I feel normal, where I'm in control, where I'm not anxious that I've said the wrong thing, where I'm free!

  "I'll do it for you, if I must."

  Isabelle's eyes filled with tears. "No, please! Next time, I'll just skip the staff meeting. It'll never happen again!"

  A thought struck her: he couldn't phone in her resignation for her because he had no idea who she reported to or what her work numbers were. She had never directly defied him, but he'd never threatened to take something so dear away from her. With new resolve, her tears dried up. "I'm not going to resign, Scott." She began chopping garlic and onion.