by Julie Cave
Tersely, Ferguson began: "We have identified the perpetrator responsible for bombing three churches in the greater D.C. area and we have obtained his home address, where we believe he is currently located. We intend to travel to his residence and we have been granted arrest and search warrants this morning."
Sinclair nodded confirmation that the warrants had been granted.
"The residence to which we'll be going is located in Parkview," continued Ferguson. "The first thing we all need to keep in mind is that there is a high likelihood of explosives in or around the residence. It'll be a small, bungalow-type residence that is single-story. We've already sent two agents to the location to ensure that the target is there, and to scope out vantage points. Once we get there, any further decisions will be made in the field. Any questions?"
"Do you think he'll have hostages?" one of the team leaders asked.
"We don't know at this stage. We'll have to assess the situation when we get there."
That was enough for the HRT and SWAT; they were eager to begin their mission. Testosterone charged through the air as guns were checked and body armor donned. Ferguson beckoned to Sinclair and Dinah to follow him back to the car. Once they were on the way to Michael McMahon's house, Ferguson glanced over his shoulder.
"I can't give you a weapon, Harris," he said. "But we'll give you a vest."
"I understand," said Dinah. She could feel the nervous tension charging the air — all of them were feeling anxiety, fear, excitement, and a great desire to apprehend the bomber.
To keep her hammering heart under control, she looked out the window and saw a typical Saturday morning unfolding for the people on the street. Moms pushed strollers with towheaded toddlers in them; young people hurried to retail jobs; cab drivers waited in the warm air for their next fare.
She could see the dark head of Sinclair as he stared out of the front passenger seat window. She felt her heart surge again. Stay safe, she told him silently. I could not bear to lose you, too.
* * * *
Senator Winters had been dragged into a weekend meeting of the Committee on Armed Services, a position he held by virtue of his previous service in the Rangers. As a result, his offices were quiet — his secretaries, aides, and interns were all enjoying a rare day off.
When Connor Eastleigh let himself into the darkened offices, every sense was hyper-alert. He strained his ears for footsteps and his eyes swiveled constantly, checking for people who shouldn't be there.
When he was satisfied that he was alone, he carefully crept down the carpeted hall toward the senator's office. If he was caught, the ramifications could be explosive. But if he completed his mission, the results would be catastrophic — for Winters.
Connor felt nothing personally for the senator — he wasn't motivated by hatred or revenge. He was simply doing what he'd been told to do. In a city where the weak were routinely destroyed, it was just another fact of life.
Really, he thought, there was little difference between street gangs and the gangs in Capitol Hill. Both had a code of unwritten rules with brutal consequences for breaches.
Inside Winters' office, Connor knelt down behind the desk so that should anybody walk by, they couldn't see him. Using a long, thin tool, he carefully picked the lock on the filing cabinet.
From there, he quietly and methodically looked through every file in the cabinet. Most of it was generic, senatorial office paperwork that would ruffle nobody's feathers. He finally found it in a file buried at the back of the cabinet, appropriately misnamed. When he found the documents he'd been looking for — the smoking gun — his pulse quickened.
He stood up and checked the hallway again. It was all clear, and he quietly walked to the open office area, where the photocopier was located. This was the most dangerous part of his mission — should he be caught here, he'd probably go to jail. Actually, he'd been warned that if Senator Winters caught him, he'd probably end up dead.
The hairs on his neck stood on end as he waited in a vulnerable position for the photocopier to finish running. When it was done, he carefully replaced the documents in the filing cabinet and locked the cabinet. Then he took out a cloth and polished every surface he'd just touched.
Finally, he left the senator's offices and walked down the street. He expected to hear a yell behind him, the footsteps of a security guard demanding to know what he'd been doing. The hairs on his neck stood on end as chills raced each other up his spine. He finally managed to get to a Starbucks, where he ordered a grande and dialed a number on his cell phone. "It's done," he said tersely.
"Well done. What did you find?"
"I found financial documents confirming our suspicions," said Connor, looking over the documents again.
"Excellent, excellent. I always knew that forensic accounting degree would come in handy for you, son."
Connor smiled. "Why do you want to take this guy down so badly?"
"It's a long story, son. Suffice to say he's not a nice guy and he's had it coming for a long, long time. He's hurt a lot of folks."
"Is politics always this dirty?"
There was a bark of laughter. "Politics is usually a dirty business. The sooner you learn that, the better. And some people become so obsessed with power they'll do anything to get it — or keep it."
Connor glanced around the Starbucks, still not feeling safe. He eyeballed the other patrons, trying to decide if any of them looked suspicious. There were no men in dark suits and sunglasses, no shifty glances, no one who looked even remotely interested in Connor or what he was doing.
"Are you sure he won't come after me?"
"We're gonna take him down for good, son. He won't be able to come after you. I promise."
Connor hung up and finished his coffee, starting to relax.
Outside in the balmy spring air, Connor walked in the opposite direction to where the Capitol dome was lit up in the night. As he walked, he marveled at this great city of contradictions: promises of transparent, honest government made against the backdrop of back room deals; the manipulation of power; the intensity of personal gain. It reminded him of a shiver of sharks, all circling in the same small tank. The smaller ones inevitably are eaten by the larger ones, until there is none weak enough left to eat. Those left take any sign of weakness as an opportunity to destroy an opponent.
He arrived at the designated safe house and dropped the documents off. From there, another photocopier whirred into action and several people worked late into the night, putting together the story of the decade. Then the documents were sent to a regulatory authority, where a contact was ready and waiting for the information.
Slowly but surely, the downfall of Senator David Winters had begun.
* * * *
Sussex 1 State Prison
Waverly, Virginia
Prisoner Number: 10734
Death Row
Last night I dreamed that I was free from prison, but the tradeoff was that I had to live in my father's house again, enduring the beatings and abuse. This raises an interesting dilemma. Would I trade one torment for another?
I think about how I survived as a child, always leaving my body behind and floating to a fantasy land where I dreamed of exacting revenge on my father. Somehow, I blocked out that physical pain and ramped up for myself alternative emotional agony.
I lie awake for most of the night, mostly wondering why I had been chosen to be born into that family. Why did it have to be me who grew up with long, skinny scars on my back? Did blind bad luck seal my destiny as I was born? What person would I have become if Reginald McMahon hadn't been my father?
I can still taste the fear, as coppery as blood, flooding into my mouth when the front door opened, heralding his arrival. I can still hear my mother's lies at the emergency room: he fell down the stairs, he fell off his bike, he jumped off the porch. I can still hear the deafening silence when we walked into church, Mom sporting a black eye, and everyone looked the other way. I can still see the starburst of vivid color
s that exploded in front of my eyes after a particularly vicious blow, and the feeling of falling, falling into a crevice where nobody could hear me scream.
I may as well have fallen into a crevice, I think, as I get up to prepare for my meeting with Dinah Harris. Nobody did hear me scream, nobody wanted to hear me scream.
My lack of sleep gets Dinah's attention. "You look awful," she observes, eyes darting from my gray skin to my red eyes to my puffy face. "Are you okay?"
"Couldn't sleep," I mumble.
"Thinking too much?" she asks sympathetically.
"Remembering too much," I reply.
She knows some of what I went through as a kid. She's never heard the full story, but she can hazard a guess as to what I mean.
"You look haunted," she says.
"Why wouldn't I be?" I challenge her. Today I feel exposed, vulnerable. I hate that feeling, so I get defensive and angry. "The past is full of pain, I have no hope for the future, and the present is barely better than torture. Is there anything in my life that could possibly be worth living for?"
"I wondered the very same thing myself less than a year ago," says Dinah.
I wasn't expecting that reply. I thought she'd offer platitudes about how I should live for the people who loved me, that I could make myself a better person here on death row. I just stare at her.
"I even went as far as purchasing the alcohol and pills I was going to take," she continues. "I wanted to go to sleep and never wake up."
Perhaps that's what lethal injection is like, I think wryly.
"Why?" I ask simply.
She nods. "I'd lost my husband and son in an auto accident. I wasn't handling the grief and I turned to alcohol. I messed up at work and I was fired from the Bureau, even though they'd given me a second chance. Believe me, I know what it's like to have no hope for the future."
She stares at the table for a few moments, and then lifts her head to look at me. Her eyes are bright and shining. "That's changed for me," she says. "I have hope now, and into eternity. I have a purpose for my life. Life takes on far greater meaning when you know that you're loved unconditionally."
"How?"
"I discovered that I was created by the hand of God, that He knows my name and that He loves me more fiercely than I can imagine," says Dinah. "I knew that I was a failure, a broken person, but God accepted me as I was and changed me into a new creature. I discovered that even while I denied God, Jesus died on the Cross in my place, as punishment for my sins. He defeated the death that had been reserved for me, and offered in its place salvation. I accepted and now have the rest of my life and beyond to look forward to understanding more about God."
I was ready for the religious talk, but I wasn't ready for the raw emotion in Dinah's voice. I have comebacks, retorts, put-downs for every religious argument. I don't have any answer for the deeply personal, loving way in which she speaks about God. It's like God is a beloved family member, like she actually has a relationship with Him.
It's a far cry from the distant, unknowable God of my youth who seemed to demand rituals and ceremonies and mindless devotion.
"Let me put it another way," Dinah adds. "Jesus walked into the cell, sat down on your bunk, and told you to leave. He'd spoken to the judge and the prosecutor and the warden, and they all agreed that even though you're guilty as charged, you're free to go as long as Jesus remains in your place. Jesus went into the execution chamber in your place, and died in your place. You are free, as if your crimes were never committed. No criminal record, no conviction, just a free slate. Would you be so crazy that you wouldn't take that gift?"
If that was here and now, of course I'd take the gift. But she's speaking in the abstract about an event that supposedly happened two thousand years ago.
"I'd take the gift," I admit.
"You'd take it even if it meant you only lived out the rest of your days on the earth," says Dinah. "But what if you got life on this earth plus life eternal? This life is just a precursor to what comes next. You decide in this life which eternity you want to choose — with God, or without Him. He'll honor your choice."
The guard raps on the metal door and it startles me. "Time!" he yells, as he marches in to re-shackle me and take me back to my cell.
"Think about it," calls Dinah as I leave the room. "Which eternity will you choose?"
Chapter 16
ONE YEAR EARLIER
Michael was haggard and gray when he woke Isabelle up. He looked like he hadn't slept, and Isabelle had crashed for a few hours on the couch. He handed his sister a mug of hot, black coffee. "They're going to come for me today," he told her.
"Okay," she said uncertainly. She didn't know what this would mean; her mind flashed with images from the movies.
"I'm not going to surrender," he added. "You might want to think about leaving now."
He stood up and walked back into the kitchen. Two bombshells, dropped in rapid succession, left Isabelle reeling. Her blurry, sleep-deprived brain took several moments to process this.
"What? What?" She raced after him. "What do you mean, you're not going to surrender?"
He regarded her, almost with amusement. "Come on, Isabelle. What do you think will happen to me if they capture me? I go on trial, am convicted of killing people, sentenced to death, and sent to death row. There I await my state-sanctioned death for years in a tiny cage. Or I can take my destiny into my own hands today. I know which one I'd rather choose."
"You might not get the death penalty," argued Isabelle desperately. "You might only get a life sentence or...."
"A life sentence? Somehow, that's even worse," interrupted Michael.
"So ... what are you planning? Suicide?" Isabelle could barely spit the word out.
"Not technically," he replied. "If I don't surrender, it's likely the FBI will use lethal force to capture me. I probably won't survive."
Isabelle was beyond appalled. They were sitting in the kitchen, calmly discussing Michael's likely death, as if it had no more consequence than what they planned to eat for breakfast. Then there was the matter of Michael's next bombshell.
"I'm going to come back to this subject, but in the meantime, what do you mean I should leave? I thought we'd already discussed the fact that I want to stay with you."
Michael sighed. "I don't want to subject you to the lethal force, when it comes. You must understand you could be killed or hurt, too."
"What's the alternative? Leaving you here to face this on your own?" Isabelle shook her head stubbornly. "I won't do it. I have to stay."
"Isabelle, I created this situation on my own, and I know I have to face the consequences. Please, I don't want you to have to face them, too," pleaded Michael.
"I have never abandoned you, Michael," said Isabelle. "I'm not about to start now. You'll just have to deal with it."
Michael absorbed this information and nodded. "Then you should know there's been a black car parked outside the front of the house since four o'clock this morning," he told her. "They've been watching the house. The cavalry will be here soon. Just thought you might like to know."
"Okay." Isabelle stood and walked into the front room. Michael had drawn the curtains, and she peeked through the crack into the morning light. A black vehicle with no obvious markings was parked on the opposite side of the street, two men sitting in the front seats. They made no attempt to hide the fact that they were watching the house using binoculars.
Isabelle was overcome with a sense of foreboding that was almost calming in its intensity. It was a feeling much the same as when her father's footsteps would sound heavily up the stairs. It was perhaps the knowledge that she had no power to change the outcome. That she had always been powerless and would always be — she had been with her father and she had been with Scott. Here she stood, powerless against the might of the FBI, coming to take her brother away.
For the next hour, they sat in the kitchen, eating Cheerios and trying to pretend that on this last normal morning together, things
would be okay. Isabelle tried to memorize the good things she knew about him, rather than the shocking revelations that he was responsible for the deaths of innocent people.
She remembered that he'd always tried to protect her from their father, that he'd never let her suffer alone. Even if all he could do was hug her as tightly as his little body would allow. He had lied for her, when someone had asked her how she broke her arm. He had stood up to Scott when she was being treated harshly. He had tried to protect her from Scott's insidious emotional abuse.
Michael was restless. He stood to look through the crack in the curtain once again.
"They're evacuating the street," he announced.
Isabelle took a look for herself. Very quietly, with a minimum of fuss, several men in dark suits were knocking on doors and shepherding the neighbors down the street.
And still, it looked like a normal Saturday morning.
She heard Michael's cell phone ring, and he answered. Several moments later, he appeared in the living room, his face even paler.
"What is it?" she asked
"It was Mom," he said, his voice faint. "She called to let me know she was the one who turned me in to the police."
Isabelle was stunned.
"Good old Mom," he said. "Throwing me to the pack of wolves yet again."
"Is that why she's been ringing you every five seconds?" Isabelle asked, wondering if her own cell phone — whereabouts currently unknown — had also been ringing off the hook.
"Yup. She wanted to know what was wrong with me. Like she doesn't already know," said Michael bitterly.
He was glassy-eyed and spoke in a monotone. Isabelle recognized his defense mechanism, withdrawing into himself, to the dark place where his anger festered and grew, feeding on itself.
"Listen," she said encouragingly. "Don't think about it. Does it really matter? You knew that it was only a matter of time before the FBI came. That's a minor detail now."
But she couldn't get through to Michael, who was changing before her eyes. Gone was the calm, lucid brother and in his place was an angry, volatile man with murder in his eyes.