Pieces of Light

by Julie Cave

  "Have you seen that man before?" Sinclair asked the owner, breaking the stunned silence.

  "No," said Fahja. "The guy who runs the cafe told me he is not a regular; he didn't recognize him either."

  "Listen, we'll need to take the tapes," said Ferguson.

  Fahja nodded. "I thought so. I made copies for myself."

  "Thanks for your help," Sinclair added. "You may have helped identify the bomber."

  Fahja shrugged. "My motives aren't completely clear," he admitted. "This bomber has ruined trade in the mall — our customers can't shop here until the scene is cleared up. The store owners will all fall behind in their rent, but I've still got mortgage payments to make. The sooner the guy is found, the better for all of us."

  In the listless air outside, Ferguson gave the tapes to Sinclair. "We need to release the footage to the media immediately," he instructed. "Someone out there knows who this man is. He must have family, friends, work colleagues, neighbors, someone who will recognize him."

  "If only the walls could talk," murmured Dinah, staring at the silently dignified cathedral. They stood in silence, Dinah thinking of the moment in which the Expedition had unleashed its fury on the unsuspecting parishioners inside.

  Then Ferguson said triumphantly, "This guy has made a major mistake. If he thinks there isn't a person out there who will recognize him...."

  "Do you think he didn't see the closed circuit television?" Dinah asked, thinking out loud. "Sure he didn't do this on purpose?"

  "What for?" Ferguson asked. "To taunt us? Because he wants to be caught?"

  "I don't know," she admitted. "It was just a thought."

  They stood in silence again, all lost in a separate reverie until Ferguson finally said, "Let's go. We gotta get these tapes to the media."

  * * * *

  Isabelle had woken to an ominously quiet house.

  She'd barely slept at all, her anxiety at the evening's confrontation growing with each passing hour. She'd dug into her hairline and ripped her fingernails to the quick in an attempt to quell the fear. Finally, after an exhausted few hours' sleep near dawn, she woke and crept into the kitchen, filled with dread.

  A solitary empty coffee cup in the kitchen sink led to waves of relief washing over her. Scott had risen early, had his morning coffee, and left for work. That meant she didn't have to face his wrath this morning, and for that she was grateful.

  She sat at the kitchen table with a steaming mug and stared, unseeing, at the blank television screen. She imagined a normal family, gathering for breakfast around a similar table: kids talking over each other and starting fights, Dad trying to listen to the news, Mom making breakfast, pouring coffee, and mediating between the kids at the same time. With a kiss planted squarely on each proffered cheek, Dad leaving for work. Mom trying to organize school bags, lunches, and ensure homework has been done.

  In that family, fear would live outside the front door, too scared of the love that bound that family together to darken its doorway. Anxiety would be felt for each other — a hard school exam, a worrying phone call from the doctor, job security — rather than because of each other. Venomous words were not designed to intimidate and crush the spirit, but instead were spoken thoughtlessly and apologized for quickly. Control was not exerted with the ruthlessness of Stalin; rather, loving boundaries enforced.

  Isabelle had long harbored her happy family in her heart, wondering what it would be like to live in one. As a child, she'd promised herself that she would never make for herself a life identical to her mother's. She would be free, independent, free of fear. Yet look at how she lived — under threat, in danger, and at the point of causing herself physical injury to block out the immense emotional agony that existed within her.

  Isabelle glanced at her watch and saw that it was time to get ready for work. Despite the confrontation with Scott last night, she was determined to hold onto this last vestige of independence, no matter what it cost her.

  Showered, freshly made-up, and ready, Isabelle dug around in her purse to find her keys. After a few moments of rummaging, she realized that they weren't there. With a frown, she tried to think where she'd left them. Had she taken them out for some reason? She thought back to yesterday, when she'd last used the car, and she remembered putting the keys back in her purse.

  Isabelle conducted a quick search of the house and couldn't find them anywhere. With a sigh of frustration, she decided she'd have to catch a cab to work.

  Her cell phone, usually resting safely in the front pocket of her purse, was not there. She suddenly felt a stab of dismay. She ripped open her purse. Every single credit card and her ATM card were missing. There were no notes or coins left in her purse.

  What is going on? Have I been robbed?

  When she discovered that the two cordless phones for the house landline were missing, and the computer's modem had also disappeared, it became clear.

  Her husband had sent her a message: Do not mess with me.

  She had no doubt that her keys, cell phone, credit cards, modem, house phones, and cash were all in Scott's car or with him at work.

  He had effectively isolated her from the rest of the world. She couldn't contact work to let them know she couldn't make it; she had no money to hail a cab or even a bus for that matter. She couldn't call a locksmith to cut her a new key for her car — she had no phone and no money. She couldn't send an SOS to her family — she had no cell phone and no computer.

  Realizing the futility of her situation, Isabelle collapsed into the living room couch, too stunned to cry.

  Why am I so stupid? How could I have let this happen?

  This was all her fault, that much was obvious. If only she'd skipped last night's staff meeting and arrived home at the normal hour. Why did she think she could bend Scott's rules so far? She should have known better!

  Furthermore, she'd defied him when he asked her to resign from her job. Wouldn't it have been better to acquiesce to his demand and find a job with no after-hours staff meetings? Didn't her family come first?

  What was I thinking? I've messed this up totally!

  He was her husband, after all, and he had the right to decide how the family would operate. She had openly refused to obey him, and his punishment was swift and severe. She just felt lucky that Scott was not like her father, who had made his point with his fists.

  Isabelle tried to gather her thoughts together. It was clear she wouldn't be doing much today, except waiting for Scott to get home. That thought caused so much apprehension to immediately course through her veins that she realized it wasn't really an option at all. She had to think of something to do with herself.

  She still had her legs, she realized. While she didn't have the money to even use a pay phone, she could visit someone who would let her use the phone for free. The closest person was her mother, but once she heard what had happened, she would freak out. It would make a stressful situation even worse.

  She didn't have any close friends; anyone she knew socially had been Scott's friend first. She didn't know them particularly well, and she knew she couldn't trust them.

  That left her brother, Michael. He was the farthest but was the only person she could totally trust.

  Several minutes later, with shorts and sneakers on, the spare house key in her pocket and a bottle of water, Isabelle set off for her walk.

  The unrelenting sun beat down on her head and she resolutely thought of anything except her marriage. There would be plenty of time for that later.

  * * * *

  The news media began their breaking news footage at lunchtime, and replayed it every hour on the hour throughout the afternoon. Tensely, Ferguson and Sinclair waited for the phones to ring, while at her own home, Dinah waited for news.

  It didn't take long for various assorted prank calls to come through, and the FBI agents' frustration levels rose with each new call.

  The phone call came at four o'clock that afternoon. A parishioner from the bombed Episcopalian cathed
ral recognized the man.

  Ferguson and Sinclair picked up Dinah on the way to the man's house, only a few blocks away from the bombed cathedral in Kalorama Heights.

  "How does he recognize the bomber?" Dinah asked in the car.

  "He says he was part of the congregation," said Sinclair.

  "What?" Dinah hadn't been expecting that response. "Part of the congregation?"

  "That's all I know," said Sinclair.

  Dinah was intrigued, and for some reason, Ferguson insisted on driving as sensibly as possible. Come on, she encouraged him. Put your foot down and get this car moving! She ground her back teeth together to stop herself from making a sharp comment.

  Finally, they arrived to a beautiful, turn-of-the-century manor house, covered in creeping ivy and surrounded by manicured lawns. A man in his fifties appeared on the front porch and waved them through the gates. He was completely bald, dressed casually in Armani and holding a Blackberry in one hand.

  "I'm Simon Browning," he introduced himself, as the three investigators climbed out of the car. He spoke quickly and efficiently, much like he conducted most of his life, guessed Dinah. "Please, come in," he added, before they'd even had a chance to introduce themselves.

  Browning led them into a formal living room lined with book shelves and furnished with leather reading chairs. On cue, a young man brought drinks and food on a silver tray — pastries, complicated-looking cookies, and prepared fruit.

  Ferguson managed to eventually introduce himself, Sinclair, and Dinah, and evidently decided to take control of the conversation. "Thank you for calling the FBI, Mr. Browning," he began. "I understand you saw the footage broadcast by the news media this afternoon of the bombing suspect and that you recognize him?"

  "Indeed I do," agreed Browning, swirling mineral water garnished with a slice of lemon. "In my business, attention to detail is the most important factor."

  "What is your business?"

  "I own an escrow agency," said Browning. "Essentially I wire money between parties conducting business transactions, into the hundreds of millions of dollars. We must follow the instructions perfectly, down to the last penny. There is no room for error. As a result, I've developed over the years a clear eye for detail."

  "Tell us how you identified the suspect," suggested Ferguson.

  "I'm a regular parishioner at the cathedral," explained Browning. "I'm there three out of every four weeks, I'd say. I've been going there for over 20 years, so I know all of the regulars. That day, a man I'd never seen before appeared. I'm pretty outgoing by nature, so I decided to welcome him to the church and strike up a conversation with him. That man was the suspect in the footage."

  "What did the man do, from the time you noticed him?" Ferguson asked, while Sinclair wrote in a notebook furiously.

  "I was already sitting down, but I was turned sideways, facing the other pews. You know, seeing people I knew, saying hi, and so forth. I saw this man walk through the doors and sit down right behind me. I knew at once he wasn't a regular — I'd never seen him before."

  "You then tried to talk to him?"

  "Right. I think I was friendly enough, asking him how he was, was this his first time here, what he did. All I got was yes/no answers. He made it pretty clear he didn't want to talk to me."

  "How did that conversation end?" Ferguson asked.

  "Well, eventually he just gave me a stare that was hard to describe. It was full of contempt and irritation, I suppose. I got the message, turned around, and stopped trying to talk to him." Browning speared a pastry with a toothpick and took a bite.

  "Did the suspect interact with anyone else in the church?"

  "No, I don't think so."

  "Where did he sit, exactly?"

  "I was on the opposite side of the church to the wall that was bombed," explained Browning. "I only got a few minor skin burns. He was right behind me, but he sat as close to the unaffected wall as possible."

  "Or, in other words, as far away from the bomb as possible," interjected Dinah.

  "Do you remember what happened during or after the explosion?" Ferguson inquired.

  Browning spent several moments in thought. "I remember the force of the bomb smashed me against the wall. I was kind of dazed for a while, then I started trying to help get people out of the church. I don't remember seeing him afterward, but I'm pretty sure he wasn't significantly injured. I would have remembered seeing that. In fact, most of the parishioners on the same side of the church as me weren't hurt."

  Dinah wrote a sentence down in her own notebook: Why did he want to experience his own bombing?

  "How was the suspect dressed?"

  "Well, that's another thing I noticed," Browning said. "I won't lie to you — our church is pretty financially comfortable. Our regulars dress pretty well. This guy, in comparison, looked pretty ragged. Not in a homeless way; more that his boots were worn and scuffed, his pants were faded, his shirt washed a few too many times. You know what I mean?"

  "So what exactly was he wearing?"

  "Black boots, dark blue chinos, a black button-down shirt." Browning seemed lost in thought for a moment.

  "Apart from not wanting to engage in a conversation with you," continued Ferguson, "did he seem nervous, anxious, jumpy?"

  Browning considered. "No. He seemed pretty calm to me. Only...."

  They let Browning compose his thoughts, but the silence dragged on interminably. Dinah wanted to shake the man and scream, What? Only what?

  "Only, he seemed to exude waves of anger," Browning said at length. "He struck me as being very, very angry. Not in the sense that he'd lose his temper, but in a cold, calculating kind of way."

  "If I suggested that the bombing were in part motivated by revenge, would that seem strange to you?" Ferguson asked.

  "Not at all," said Browning immediately. "That definitely fits with the anger I sensed in the man." He paused. "Revenge? Is that what the bombing was about?"

  "No, it's just a theory," said Ferguson quickly. "I don't suppose you ever found out the man's name?"

  "Sorry, I can't help you there."

  Dinah underlined the sentence she had written in her notebook. A coldly calculating bomber, intent on punishing churches, had borne witness to his own detonation.

  But why?

  * * * *

  Senator David Winters had turned his back to his desk and sat staring out the window in his Senate Office Building. He had a view of the Lower Senate Park and he stared at the green lawns, deep in thought. In fact, he was so deep in thought that when there was a polite cough behind him, he almost jumped out of his skin.

  Carefully, he regained his composure before swinging his chair around to face Connor Eastleigh, his latest intern. The young man stood awkwardly with a sheaf of papers in his hand.

  "Why are you skulking around here like a bandit?" Winters demanded bad-temperedly.

  Connor flushed. "I thought you heard me knock and come in, sir."

  Winters ignored that, knowing full well that he should have heard the young man. He had been a Special Forces commander and his senses had once been finely tuned. Apparently not anymore, he mused sulkily. "What do you want?" he asked.

  "Well, you asked me to get you some information about case law regarding separation of church and state?" Connor said. "It's ready."

  Despite himself, Winters did want to hear the information that Connor had gathered.

  "Sit down and tell me," he commanded.

  "Okay, Hein v. Freedom From Religion Foundation, in which the FFRF sued on behalf of taxpayers the funding of conferences which help religious organizations apply for federal grants, under President George W. Bush's Faith Based and Community Initiatives Program. The basis for the lawsuit was that FFRF claimed the conferences promoted religious community organizations over secular ones. The district court dismissed the case, while the appellate court reversed the decision. The Supreme Court ultimately granted review of the case in 2006, in which the opinion majority held that the ta
xpayers had no standing to challenge the use of discretionary funds." Connor took a breath and paused.

  "So we lost that one," said Winters, starting hard at the young man.

  "Right. In Pennsylvania, 2005, Moeller v. Bradford County, the ACLU filed a lawsuit on behalf of taxpayers and a former inmate of the Bradford County jail. It was alleged that a religious vocational training program run within the jail, which was funded almost entirely by both federal and local governments, proselytized to inmates and that inmates were forced to take part in prayer. The case was eventually settled with Bradford County, wherein agreements were made that the county severely restrict the use of public funding to aid religion, and that any faith-based organization is intensively monitored to ensure compliance with those restrictions."

  "So we won that one," mused Winters.

  "Yes, sir. You might be interested to know that the vocational training program no longer operates and has not done so since the legislation."

  "How interesting!" Winters allowed himself a smile.

  "In 2000 in the case Padreira v. Kentucky Baptist Homes for Children, the ACLU filed suit in the federal district court challenging the state's funding of the home, in which children under the care of the state were living. The district court dismissed all claims and an appeal was lodged with the Sixth Circuit appellate court. In 2009 the appeal was upheld although the case is now pending on the result of a similar case."

  "So it looks like we'll win that," summarized Winters.

  "In 2010 Arizona Christian School Tuition Organization v. Winn was filed challenging a statute which allows residents to direct part of their tax payments to organizations which provide scholarships to students, the majority of whom go to religious schools. The plaintiffs argued that allowing residents to direct tax payments is the same as providing cash grants. The district court dismissed the case and the appellate court reversed that decision."

  Winters nodded. "It would appear the appellate and Supreme Courts are more generous toward our side."

  "It does appear so, sir." Connor shuffled paper. "Would you like to hear more?"

  "Let's hear one more," said Winters, thinking of his Supreme Court justice pal, Maxwell Pryor.