Pieces of Light

by Julie Cave

  He froze. "Excuse me?"

  "I'm not going to do it. I love my job." She spoke with courage, but she couldn't meet his gaze. "I'm here for you almost every night. I make dinner for you even though you often don't bother coming home. You don't call me when you decide not to come home. I won't let you take away the only thing that gives me stability."

  "How dare you speak to me like that," said Scott, standing up and stalking slowly around the island bench. "I am the leader of this house! It's not your place to question my activities but it sure is my business to know what you're doing and who you're with."

  "Is that what this is about?" Isabelle asked, surprising herself. She'd have normally backed down by now. "You think I was with someone tonight?"

  "I can't imagine anyone else who would want you," snarled Scott. "Who would want a wife who doesn't take care of her husband and spends her free time mutilating herself?"

  Isabelle took a deep breath at the onslaught of his words. She could think of nothing to say that would make the situation better — except to accede to her husband's demands — and that she just couldn't do.

  Suddenly, Scott was next to her, reminding her that his size and strength were far superior to her own. "You will resign," he said, fists balled at his side.

  Isabelle focused on quartering snow peas. "I will not," she replied quietly.

  Scott yanked her arm with surprising force, spinning her to face him. "Do you really want to do this?" he shouted. "You really want to defy me?"

  "I'm not going to resign." She just couldn't look him in the eye, where cold fury had replaced all reason.

  "This is your last chance," he warned. He raised his fist, and Isabelle was starkly aware that he was capable of violence.

  Almost unable to hold herself upright such was the terror pulsing through her veins, she showed him the kitchen knife in her other hand. "Don't do it," she said very softly.

  They froze, like two combatants in the boxing ring. Scott seemed to be weighing up whether his wife would use the knife. Isabelle wondered if she possessed the resolve to defend herself.

  "This is a big mistake," Scott finally said, letting go of her arm. "You will regret this every day for the rest of your life."

  "I already am," Isabelle said, though she was talking about something very different. As she watched him stalk away, she dropped the knife into the sink with a clatter and collapsed, a shaking mess, onto a chair. When would this nightmare end? Deep in her heart, she knew the answer was until death do us part.

  * * * *

  One of the lovely ladies in her Bible study had brought homemade chocolate chip cookies, and the smell permeated the air as Dinah rushed into the church building. She was usually the last one to arrive at the meeting, punctuality not being her strongest trait.

  "Hi, sorry I'm late," she said, sitting down and grabbing a cookie in one fluid motion. "Hope you haven't been waiting long."

  The four other women watched her with amusement.

  "Well, Dinah," said Ruth, the recognized leader of the group, "there is something different about you tonight. What's going on?"

  "Yeah," chimed in Alicia, the youngest woman in the study. "You look really happy."

  "What?" Dinah asked. "What do I look like normally?"

  "Well ... just not quite so elated," said Alicia. "What's happened?"

  Dinah looked around the group, wondering what to say. They were godly women, offering wise counsel. She would be foolish not to seek their opinions.

  "Uh ... well, I sort of met someone," she said awkwardly.

  Sara, a mother of four, clapped her hands together excitedly. "Tell us all about it!"

  "Well, I met him at work," said Dinah, her cheeks burning. "He's an FBI agent. We're working on the bombing case together."

  "What's his name?" Alicia wanted to know.

  "Aaron."

  "Have you been out with him?" Deborah, a well-dressed ambassador's wife, asked.

  "Yes, we had brunch together yesterday," said Dinah, unable to keep the smile from her face.

  "Is he good-looking?" Alicia asked, with an infectious giggle.

  Dinah's entire face burned. "Well, I think he is."

  Ruth touched Dinah's arm and asked gravely: "Is he a Christian?"

  Dinah was taken aback. She recalled their discussion about church: he hadn't directly said he wasn't a Christian, but he had preferred to go running instead of to a service. "Uh ... you know, I don't know."

  Ruth nodded. "Dinah, you are a new Christian so you shouldn't feel bad, but the Bible is very clear about the types of romantic relationships we allow ourselves into."

  "It is?" Dinah hadn't known that.

  Ruth flipped open her Bible. "Specifically, the writer of 2 Corinthians, chapter six, verses 14 and 15 talk about this issue. It says, 'Do not be yoked together with unbelievers. For what do righteousness and wickedness have in common? Or what fellowship can light have with darkness? . . . What does a believer have in common with an unbeliever?'"

  "What the passage is saying is that you are now on Christ's team," added Deborah. "It would be foolish to yoke yourself to someone who is not on Christ's team. Would he come with you to church? Would he support you doing Bible study? Would he be a source of temptation, to do things you know are wrong? How could he be a godly husband if he's not a Christian? Would it pain you to know that he is not saved for eternity?"

  Dinah blinked. "I hadn't really thought about it, to be honest. I mean, it was just one date."

  "Do you intend to go on more dates?" Sara asked.

  "Well, yes."

  "And you really like him, don't you?"

  Dinah cleared her throat, embarrassed. "Yes."

  "Then you need to think carefully about what God says," said Sara. "Marriages between a Christian and a non-Christian can often be very painful. Sometimes the non-Christian spouse can lead the other away from faith or make decisions that are the opposite of what God would want."

  "There is also the issue of dating itself," added Ruth. "Society has welcomed premarital sex as being quite normal and acceptable. God says, in the Bible, that sexual relations are for the marital bed only. Would he be likely to pressure you into conforming to the world's standards instead of upholding God's standards?"

  Dinah felt stricken. "I ... don't know. I haven't thought about it. I didn't really know." She took another cookie and jammed it into her mouth so she couldn't speak.

  "It seems like we're ganging up on you," said Deborah gently. "But I can't stress how important it is to enter into a relationship with prayer; to search God's Word to find out what God wants you to do. Your relationship with God and your belief and faith in His commands must come before all else."

  Dinah leaned back in her chair and swallowed the last of her cookie. "Wow. I must seem pretty dumb, but I truly didn't know any of that."

  "You are far from dumb," said Ruth, squeezing her arm maternally. "One of the best things about being a Christian is that we never stop learning. I have been a Christian for 15 years and I am still learning new things about my relationships with others and deepening my faith. It is a lifetime journey, perfected only once we're in heaven."

  "So what should I do?" Dinah asked. "Aaron asked me to go out with him tomorrow night."

  "I would take it as an opportunity," advised Deborah. "You can be completely honest with him about your Christianity and how important it is to you. Explain that if he chooses to be a non-Christian, then you can be friends only."

  "It's a great way to witness to him," added Ruth. "You can offer to take him to church or answer his questions about Christianity."

  "Just make sure he understands that an intimate relationship is something you'll only consider with another Christian," chimed in Sara.

  "Okay, I see." Dinah nodded, but inside she felt conflicted. What if he hates me? What if he laughs in my face?

  They opened their Bibles to the times of King David, and began to immerse themselves in the study. Dinah found it hard to co
ncentrate, but having heard their counsel, she knew they were right. If Aaron laughed at her or walked away from her because she was a Christian, then a relationship with him would be doomed from the start. On the other hand, perhaps he'd be interested and want to know more.

  God, she prayed, please take control of this situation before I lose my mind. Help me to do what is right in Your eyes and the rest I give over to You.

  * * * *

  Sussex 1 State Prison

  Waverly, Virginia

  Prisoner Number: 10734

  Death Row

  Today, Dinah's not messing around. She's all business.

  I know I can't leave her in the dark for much longer. She knows how I built and detonated the bombs; she wants to talk about why.

  I'm tired — I want to sleep until this whole death row thing is over.

  "Tell me where this hatred of churches comes from," she wants to know. "You sat in the third church you bombed without feeling any remorse for the people you were about to kill and injure."

  How can I explain that they are not people to me? I looked around that church and I saw greedy pigs getting their fill at the trough of life — more than their fair share.

  "What does the Bible say about the poor and oppressed?" I ask her. Without waiting for a reply, I answer myself: "It says not to deny justice to poor people in lawsuits, doesn't it?"

  "Yes, I believe it says that in the Old Testament," agrees Dinah.

  "Exodus," I affirm. "In Psalms, it instructs us to defend the cause of the weak; to maintain the rights of the poor and oppressed."

  "Yes, it does," agrees Dinah.

  "Proverbs says that he who oppresses the poor shows contempt for God," I continue. "How do you think the churches are doing?"

  "I don't know," says Dinah. "But I know there are many churches that care greatly about the poor, and provide services to those who wouldn't otherwise be able to access them."

  "Not the churches I bombed," I inform her.

  "Okay, so you're angry with churches because they have a bad record of helping the less fortunate?" Dinah asks, taking notes furiously.

  "Among other things," I say, "they seem to be very good at ignoring the commands found in their own Bible."

  "So you grew up in a church?" Dinah asks shrewdly.

  "Yes, but I stopped going as soon as I was allowed to make my own decision."

  "What would you classify yourself as now?"

  "I'm a secular humanist," I say. "I don't believe in anything supernatural. Nature is all that exists."

  "I see. And how did you decide that that's what you wanted to be?"

  "Let's just say that I grew tired of answering to a God who didn't seem to care," I say. "Humanism appealed to me because it discounts anything supernatural. Humans are ultimately responsible for their own destiny. There was something significant missing from the church I attended," I add. "Compassion."

  Dinah nods thoughtfully. "So when you looked for something to fill the void of church, you found something that teaches compassion?"

  "The sixth entry of the Humanist Manifesto 2000 — our Ten Commandments, if you will — is a commitment to preserving human rights and enhancing human freedom and dignity," I say. I have memorized the Manifesto.

  Dinah purses her lips. "Do you see that it's ironic — your desire for compassion and your hatred and subsequent murder of church parishioners?"

  I frown at her. "What do you mean?"

  "Well, those who are of a humanist way of thinking often espouse the need for tolerance of all people," continues Dinah. "You just said that the Manifesto specifically mentions that humans ought to be afforded freedom and dignity."

  "Right," I agree.

  "Yet you are guilty of murdering those who practice Christianity and your humanist brothers and sisters actively deny Christians the right to practice their religion in public. For example, humanists have had some success in banning nativity scenes and prayer in public buildings. I would argue that this is in fact intolerant, which means that humanism is just as hypocritical as you say Christianity is."

  Dinah says this without heat or venom in her voice — just lucid logic. When she finishes, she waits for my reply, looking at me.

  If I wasn't on death row — if my brain was working properly — I would have the answers for her. However, my habit of sleeping for 14 hours a day due to sheer boredom seems to have detrimentally affected my ability to think.

  "I'm aware," she continues, "that more specifically, your church didn't help you when you needed it. That's where the hatred started, isn't it?"

  I glare at her. She was recalling a conversation we'd had under the most arduous of circumstances. There were some things that I just hated to bring up. I can't bring myself to talk about it calmly. It's a story best told when emotions get the best of me — fear or anger.

  Abruptly, she changes the subject. "How did you manage to hide your hatred for so long? I mean, you held down a job and had good relationships with your family and others. Most people who knew you can't believe that it was you who detonated those bombs."

  "I guess I just became good at it," I say, glad to be on a different topic. "Like anyone who leads a double life. I was good at faking an acceptable personality and good at lying. I never let anyone get too close."

  Dinah seems to be thinking long and hard about this. Perhaps she is thinking of her own experiences — her double life as a former alcoholic and the lies she once told.

  Don't we all have a double life? Even those who go to church compartmentalize their lives into things that are public and things are hidden away in the darkest parts of the soul. People are capable of hiding so much behind closed doors: the way they treat their children, the way they speak to their spouse, their business dealings, the taxes they cheat on, their affairs, the drug that helps them cope, their temper. The list is endless.

  Most people think they would never be like me. I am the lowest kind of person; barely human at all. But if you have a secret life, you are more like me than you know.

  Chapter 12

  The owner of the boutique strip mall next to the bombed cathedral in Kalorama Heights had given the FBI closed circuit television footage taken from his premises, and they had spent the night reviewing it. Now Ferguson and Sinclair wanted to talk to the owner, and Dinah wanted to see the footage for herself. Dinah met Ferguson and Sinclair at the mall, at an hour that seemed inhumanly early. Dinah couldn't park close to the mall, given the entire area had been closed off by the Metro Police and the FBI, and so she walked by the wounded church and marveled at its melancholy atmosphere. The absence of people in a place that should be so vibrant; the building's mortal wounds; the air that seemed to be heavy and listless all added to the somber undercurrent.

  When she saw Ferguson and Sinclair waiting for her at the mall's entrance, her heart did a familiar skipping dance, this time tinged with confusion. She couldn't deny her attraction to Sinclair — who was handsome, funny, and smart — but she knew in no uncertain terms that she couldn't enter into a relationship with him unless he was a Christian.

  With a sigh, she resolved to think about it later and smiled at Ferguson and Sinclair as she joined them. "Good morning," she said.

  Sinclair winked at her. "Hi."

  Her heart began to melt.

  "Morning," said Ferguson. He waved over another man, a middle-aged, balding man with heavy eyebrows and dark eyes.

  "This is Usman Fahja," Ferguson introduced the man. "Special Agent Sinclair and Consultant Harris. He is the owner of this mall and has given us the CCTV footage." He gestured at Dinah. "Our consultant hasn't yet seen it — can we look over it again?"

  Fahja nodded at them. "Come to my office," he said. "You'll be able to see it there." They followed Fahja to the back of the mall where his small office was located. A square security TV had an image frozen on the screen.

  "I installed cameras after a few burglaries," explained Fahja. "A lady was also mugged in the parking lot. So the cameras
I installed survey the shops and the entire parking lot."

  Dinah felt a sense of excitement. "The bomber parked his vehicle in the parking lot."

  Fahja nodded and they all stared at the small screen, dated from the previous Sunday. It was a normal scene — the cafe doing brisk brunch trade. The parking lot was perhaps half full and there was no sense of the tragedy that was about to unfold. The camera shot changed to show the parking lot in its entirety. The side of the lot that directly abutted the church wall could be clearly seen.

  "Can we stay on this camera angle?" Ferguson asked.

  The time stamp on the footage showed that it was about an hour and a half before the explosion. They hit the jackpot within the next half hour of footage. A large red Ford Expedition parked in the space from which the bomb had been detonated.

  Dinah held her breath. They were watching the bomb arrive — but would they see the person responsible?

  A man climbed from the Expedition. He was dressed smartly, in a button-down shirt and chinos. He had a military-style buzz cut and was tall and broad. His facial features were unremarkable.

  "That's why no hair fibers were found in the baseball cap in Manassas," whispered Sinclair. "He barely has hair."

  Dinah nodded her agreement, amazed for the hundredth time that the person capable of killing and maiming others looked so ordinary.

  The bomber strolled toward the mall, and Fahja quickly changed the camera so that the store fronts could be seen. The bomber sat down at an outdoor table at the cafe and had a coffee. From Dinah's estimation, she thought he was facing the church, watching his prey as they assembled.

  The bomber finished and left the cafe, walking in the direction of his bomb-laden car. The camera angle changed again and the four watched him walk past the Expedition into the grounds of the church.

  From there, the bomber disappeared from view. About half an hour later, the cameras captured the explosion and there was silence as the Ford disintegrated into a flash of fire and smoke.