Pieces of Light

by Julie Cave

  When he reappeared in the kitchen with a semi-automatic gun and a cell phone she'd never seen before, it seemed that her heart momentarily stopped.

  "What are you doing?" she gasped.

  "Isabelle, it's time to get serious," he said. "If you're determined to stay here with me...."

  "Yes, I am," she interjected.

  "Well, they'll see you as being a hostage," Michael continued. "The only other option is that you're an accessory, which I refuse to allow you to do. So if you're a hostage — I have to look the part, don't I?"

  Isabelle swiftly grasped the finer details of the point Michael was making. "Can we do without the gun?" she pleaded.

  "We'll see," said Michael. "We play by my rules."

  He heard something and got up to investigate. He came back with a strange look on his face.

  "They've come for me," he said. "It's time."

  * * * *

  In Parkview, the street on which Michael McMahon lived had been evacuated by the time Ferguson, Sinclair, and Dinah arrived. Behind them the Hostage Rescue Team and the SWAT team swarmed like black flies over the scene.

  It was dull and overcast today, and the humidity was vicious. Dinah took off her jacket as Ferguson set up a mobile command center from the back of the SWAT team's SUV.

  The team leader of the HRT was named Roger Strauss, and he approached Ferguson with the team leader of the SWAT team, Rudy Carroll. They were virtually imitations of each other — as wide as they were tall, the bulk of it muscle. Both sported buzz cuts and a ferocious appetite for breaking down doors to nab a bad guy.

  Carroll spoke first. "My team has checked out the southwestern perimeter of the location," he reported. "There is one back door and several small windows to the rear of the property. I have located two possible sniper points — one on the roof of the nearby garage and one behind a grouping of trees in a neighbor's yard. Both points have a direct view into the suspect's house."

  "Did you see the suspect?" Ferguson asked.

  Carroll shook his head. "Windows are closed and curtains are drawn."

  Strauss took over. "We scouted the front of the property and found no usable sniper points. There is a front door and two large bay windows through which we might gain entrance. The house is closed up and curtains drawn."

  "Would there be any cover if our teams attempted forced entry?" Ferguson asked.

  Both men shook their heads. The yard surrounding the bungalow was sparse.

  "I'm somewhat reticent to send men anywhere near the garage," Ferguson said. "We know a suspect can build bombs and it wouldn't surprise me if there was a bomb in there waiting for us." He paused for a moment, thinking.

  "Do we know the approximate layout of the house?" he asked.

  "The front consists of a long living room and entry to the left of the front door," explained Carroll. "To the right are two bedrooms. Facing the rear of the property are the kitchen, dining room, bathroom, and bedroom."

  Strauss and Carroll didn't reply but simply nodded in unison.

  "What would you do, if you were in charge?" Ferguson asked. Dinah knew this was a question he asked to find out more about the team leader's style. Men who were anxious to send in the armed cavalry immediately were considered to be a little too enthusiastic to commit violence. Ferguson wanted to see whether both men would agree to a more measured, planned approach with violence as a last resort.

  Unfortunately, their replies didn't instill a lot of confidence.

  "I'd use stun grenades," said Strauss. "Cover the entry with sniper fire and immobilize the suspect as soon as possible."

  Carroll nodded his confirmation.

  Ferguson raised his eyebrows. "You don't know if there are hostages in there," he said mildly.

  Carroll and Strauss glanced at each other and shrugged.

  Ferguson caught Dinah's eye before he said firmly, "We're going to try negotiation first. We need to discover who is in the house and his state of mind before we go charging in. Where is your hostage negotiator?"

  "On maternity leave, sir," said Strauss.

  Ferguson compressed his lips until they were white. "I see. Sinclair, you've done some negotiating, haven't you?"

  The other man nodded. "Sure, a little bit."

  "Okay, you're on."

  Dinah stood back as Sinclair was given headphones and a stalk microphone with which to make a call into the house. The entire conversation would be recorded by a device hooked up in the back of the SUV.

  Ferguson sent both tactical units to their assigned locations with binoculars. No one had yet caught sight of the suspect inside the house or garage, and the FBI agent-in-charge wanted to know he was before contact was made.

  The little house was closed up tighter than a crypt, and there was no report of movement. It was as still and silent as death.

  Finally, Ferguson shook his head and said to Sinclair, "Okay, we've got no choice. Call him up and try to work out his location in your conversation."

  Sinclair dialed the number and they waited, still as statues, for a reply.

  Finally, there was a click: "Hello?"

  "Hello, is this Michael?" Sinclair asked, infusing his voice with warmth to ensure the suspect remained calm.

  "Yes. Who is this?"

  "My name is Aaron. I guess you probably know that the FBI is here."

  "I've seen them. Are you with the FBI?"

  "Yes. I'd like to work out a way to resolve this situation as peacefully as possible," said Sinclair.

  "What situation?"

  "Well, we'd like you to come out of the house so we can talk."

  "About what?"

  "It's really best if we talk in person," said Sinclair. "That's why we'd like you to come out."

  "So you can shoot me?"

  "No. As I said, we'd like for it to be as peaceful as possible. We just want to talk."

  There was a harsh laugh. "Somehow, I don't think so. How many guns you got pointed at me, Aaron? I'll bet there are a couple of snipers just itching to pull the trigger."

  "That's the worst possible case scenario, Michael. Let's not let it go that far."

  "Well, let me give it to you straight. I'm not coming out."

  Sinclair pursed his lips and glanced at Ferguson. "Why do you say that, Michael?"

  There was a long silence. Sinclair frowned. Dinah knew the feeling: that the situation was slipping out of control.

  "Michael? Is everything okay?" Sinclair asked.

  "Yes, it's fine. Look, I just can't come out, okay?"

  "Can you tell me how you're feeling?" Sinclair tried a gentler approach.

  "I'm not coming out. My sister and I have agreed. We're staying here, understand?"

  The phone abruptly went dead.

  * * * *

  Isabelle stared at her brother as he hung up.

  "What's going on?" she asked urgently.

  He wasn't talking. His eyes were wild and he got up to check the curtains and doors for the thousandth time. He didn't let go of the gun but cradled it close to his chest as he darted between windows.

  Isabelle was starting to get a panicky feeling in her own chest, and it didn't have anything to do with the armed men waiting outside. It had more to do with this side of her brother that she hadn't seen before, and it was scaring her.

  Michael sat down, and Isabelle saw the beads of sweat standing out on his forehead and upper lip.

  "She couldn't call the cops when we actually needed them," he continued. "Like, I don't know, to protect us. But when it comes to betrayal, she knows just what to do."

  Isabelle pursed her lips as she suddenly saw a flash of insight into Michael's mind. She could plainly see that the only way she could get Michael out of this situation alive was to somehow persuade him to surrender. She had no training in psychology — how on earth was she supposed to accomplish this?

  "You know," she said, at length, "I totally understand what you mean, but don't you think now that we're adults we should try to ... forg
ive?"

  Michael stared at her, his eyes as hard and glittery as diamonds. "What are you talking about? Which part do you want me to forgive exactly? My father for beating me? Or my mother for lying about it? My mother for failing to protect me from that beast?"

  "Michael, I know," said Isabelle pleadingly. "I was there, remember? I know."

  "What you're asking me," Michael said, "is impossible. I can't do it. It's too late."

  "We can try to make this right. We can start now."

  Brooding, Michael checked the doors and windows.

  They were both startled by the phone ringing. Michael snatched it up and turned the speaker phone on.

  "What?"

  "Hello, it's Aaron," said the FBI agent calmly. "Is everything okay in there?"

  "Why wouldn't it be?" snarled Michael.

  "Yes. Well, that's good to hear. How is your hostage?"

  Michael flashed a painful smile. "She's just fine."

  "You got anyone else in there? We really care about the welfare of everyone in that house," said Aaron.

  "There's just the two of us," said Michael. "What are you planning out there, Aaron? You got snipers in the trees? Planning an assault on the house?"

  "Now, we just want this to end peacefully," said Aaron soothingly. "If you'd just come out...."

  "I'm not coming out!" yelled Michael, making Isabelle jump. "Get that through your thick head! And if you're thinking of sending in the troops, you'd better think again. This whole house is wired to the roof with explosives. It won't just take me out, you understand? It'll take out the houses on either side and your entire post out there on the street."

  There was silence on the other end of the phone, and then Aaron said, in a somewhat strangled voice: "Okay."

  "So call off the dogs, Aaron. Personally, I don't care if I get blown up — maybe that's what I've always wanted. But I don't think my sister deserves it, and I'm sure you don't want to be either."

  "Michael ... okay, I hear you," said Aaron. There was a strange muffled noise in the background. "What is it you want out of this situation?"

  Michael didn't answer but hung up.

  Isabelle didn't think she could be any further shocked, but Michael was proving her wrong with every passing second.

  "Is that true?" she whispered. "About the bomb?"

  He pointed at the cell phone, sitting harmlessly on the kitchen table. "That's not for making phone calls, Isabelle."

  Isabelle shifted her chair away from it unconsciously. How could such a harmless-looking instrument wield so much power?

  "Why would you do that?" she asked. "Would you really try to take everyone out with you? You would kill more people?"

  "No, I really don't want to," he said. "I'm not a complete monster. But it's a negotiating tool, okay?"

  "Michael ... but what do you really want?" Isabelle said. "I know you said earlier that you want to ... end it, but is that truly what you want?"

  Michael sighed. "You know what? None of this is what I wanted. I don't know how it got so out of hand."

  Isabelle watched him and waited.

  "I just want people to know that what was done to me as a child is wrong," he said, pain infusing his voice. "It changed me for the worse. Yet it's happening to thousands of kids all over the country every day. This is what it turned me into — that's what I want people to know."

  Isabelle nodded. What he said made sense, and she didn't disagree.

  Michael, the D.C. bomber, was the tragic outcome of a violent father and a passive mother and a society that turned a blind eye. Michael bore the full responsibility of his actions, Isabelle knew, but if only someone had stepped into their family, shown some love and affection, maybe things could have turned out so differently.

  Her heart broke afresh for her sad, dysfunctional family.

  * * * *

  When Sinclair hung up the phone, he looked dejected. Everyone heard what had been said and silence reigned in the command post.

  Ferguson scratched his eyebrow. "Well," he said, at length, "I guess that dashes our hopes of the suspect coming out peacefully."

  Dinah glanced at those gathered in the small, hot space: Ferguson, who was in charge; Sinclair, Strauss, and Carroll, none of whom looked happy. A perimeter had been set up at either end of the street, and Dinah could see the media vans parked en masse as close as possible. She remembered what it was like to be a rookie FBI agent assigned to keeping the media under control: in many ways, they were harder to reason with than a criminal.

  "All right," said Ferguson. "Let's hear your opinions. What do you think we should do?"

  "Forced entry," said Strauss immediately. "We know there is only one innocent in there; I think we can contain collateral damage. The location is reasonably easy in which to maneuver."

  "And what of the bomb supposedly wired in the house which could take your entire team out?" demanded Sinclair, raising his eyebrows. "I think we should continue to negotiate further. Everyone has a pressure point, something that'll convince him to surrender. I don't think we should try violence except as a last resort."

  "I agree with Strauss," said Carroll. "Though if you're worried about the house being wired, we can set up the snipers."

  "Yeah," said Strauss, nodding. "I like that. We can get the sniper a great angle and take him out. Then we'll worry about the explosives."

  "Well, I still don't like it," said Sinclair. "We should be considering killing a suspect as a last resort, where the suspect is threatening lethal force. Our suspect is doing nothing lethal: he's just noncompliant."

  "Oh yeah?" challenged Strauss. "What about his hostage? Taking a hostage isn't lethal?"

  "Plus we know he's got a weapon," chimed in Carroll.

  "I'm not convinced she's a legitimate hostage," said Sinclair with a frown. "She's his sister. You've been getting body heat readings from the house — you know they're both sitting at the kitchen table. We haven't seen any violence from him toward her."

  "Any suspect who is noncompliant is fresh out of chances in my book," muttered Strauss. He glanced at his buddy.

  "Yeah," said Carroll. "This is not your garden variety wife-beater with the brains of a jellyfish. In case you've forgotten, this guy is responsible for murdering people. You can't really get much more lethal than that, can you?"

  "I still think if he sees a sniper getting into position, he's gonna blow up," said Sinclair. "Pardon the pun. You really want to take the risk of detonating this entire street?"

  "Well, negotiating hasn't exactly worked, has it?" snapped Carroll.

  "All right, calm down," said Ferguson. He rubbed his temples. "I'm not entirely comfortable with exercising lethal force either, I have to say."

  Strauss and Carroll glanced at each other and rolled their eyes, a gesture that was not lost on Ferguson, who glared at them.

  "The suspect has demonstrated his ability and willingness to use explosives," he snapped. "If there is a possibility he's got a bomb in that house, then I'd prefer to check that out before we send a dozen men to their deaths. So now we're going to talk about negotiation. If you don't have anything useful to add to the conversation, you can leave the command post."

  Carroll and Strauss glowered, but both decided to leave the command post, such as it was. Sinclair sighed. "Okay. Suggestions on how to find this guy's pressure point?"

  "He has a point to the bombings," said Dinah, who'd been silent up to now. "We know that much from the communications he sent to the media. He has done everything for a reason. We just need to know what that reason is and use it."

  Ferguson nodded thoughtfully. "He's very angry about something; I assume something to do with churches. How can we capitalize on that?"

  "We just need to talk to him," said Dinah. "We need to win his trust. We can't do anything until then."

  Sinclair nodded. "Okay, so up to now we've asked him to come out. We've made some demands on him. Maybe it's time to back off, find out what he wants."

  "That'
s the thing," said Dinah. "I'm not sure he knows what he wants. If you think about most hostage situations, the suspect wants something: money, freedom, a guarantee of something. Our guy hasn't asked for anything — yet."

  "It'll just be a matter of time," said Sinclair. "He'll want something."

  Dinah pursed her lips. "Have you thought about the fact that he might want to end this on his own terms?"

  "What do you mean?" Ferguson asked.

  "Well, if he just wants to die," explained Dinah, "he would just sit there and wait for the SWAT team to come after him. Why would he bother with the bomb if that was the case? It doesn't make sense. Plus, I really don't think he wants to hurt his sister. He wants something from us, and then I think he'll be ready to die."

  Ferguson asked, "Suicide by cop?"

  "Yeah. That could account for his noncompliance," said Dinah. "Once he gets what he wants, he'll probably walk through the front door with a gun, knowing that the nearest sniper will take him out in a millisecond."

  "I'm sure Strauss and Carroll would like nothing better," muttered Sinclair.

  "That's not happening on my watch," said Ferguson firmly. "A gun battle is the last thing we need, especially with the media down there viewing the whole thing."

  "I have an idea," said Dinah. "You know I used to be a negotiator, right?"

  "Right," said Ferguson.

  "I was pretty good at it, right?" Dinah continued. "I mean, I was working with very hostile subjects. This guy is a walk in the park in comparison."

  "What are you getting at, Harris?"

  "I could go in there and talk to him," suggested Dinah. "Just me and him, shooting the breeze. I know how to build trust with a suspect and I know I can end this thing peacefully."

  "No way!" declared Sinclair immediately. "It's too dangerous! You're not an active agent, you don't have a weapon or a badge, and we don't know what this guy could do to you."

  Dinah felt a little surge of warmth toward Sinclair — did he not want her to go in because he cared for her?

  Ferguson was looking at her thoughtfully. He hadn't immediately discounted her plan, and that meant she had a chance.

  "You want to go in there and talk, huh?" he mused.

  It was a risk, Dinah knew, but she was up to the challenge.