by Julie Cave
Chapter 17
The morning newspaper was waiting on Senator Winters' desk when he arrived in his office; admittedly he was a little late this morning, but then he'd had a long night.
His secretary, Trixie, watched him walk into his office with large, scared eyes. He frowned at her. "What's wrong?" he demanded.
She looked at the floor. "Uh ... nothing. Good morning, sir."
He rolled his eyes and shut his office door behind him. He stretched a little before he sat down, closed his eyes, and buzzed Trixie to get him a double-shot coffee.
When he opened his eyes, his gaze fell on the day's edition of the Post. His heart stopped beating and he stopped breathing. His face was plastered across the front page of the newspaper, with the headline Senator in Campaign Funding Scandal!
Winters didn't recall feeling this out of control since being outnumbered in Vietnam in the middle of a tropical storm, his platoon assaulted on all sides by Vietcong bullets and grenades. But he forced himself to read the article.
It has been revealed that Senator David Winters harbors ambitions greater than his current office, evidenced by the sudden inflow of money into a campaign fund. Documents sourced show that the senator has received a large donation from an entity in the last month totaling $500,000. The source of the funds proves to be most troubling, with traces showing every cent of the donation originating offshore.
The FEC regulations surrounding campaign finance strictly prohibit campaign finance from foreign nationals. The Federal Election Campaign Act prohibits any foreign national from contributing, donating, or spending funds in connection with any election in the United States.
This serious violation of ethics will surely derail any ambition Senator Winters may have had for the presidency, with sources on Capitol Hill suggesting he could face a disciplinary ethics committee hearing over the scandal. He may also face a backlash from his electorate, with many American citizens fed up with political corruption and cover-ups. He will most certainly be required to return the funds to their source.
One thing is for certain: Senator Winters, once the golden-haired child of liberal politics, faces an uncertain future with an irrevocably tarnished reputation.
Senator Winters let the newspaper drop to the ground as Trixie crept into his office with his coffee. Winters could see that she had already read the story and was now fearfully awaiting the fallout.
"Trixie," he said very quietly, "do not take any phone calls. Do not let anyone into this office. Do not make a comment to anyone. Do you understand?"
She nodded and backed out quickly, clearly wanting to be out of the room when he inevitably erupted.
Winters strode to the bar and poured himself a double shot of bourbon. He drank it in one gulp, and he was glad for the burning in his throat as it went down. It sharpened his thoughts. How could this have happened? he wondered relentlessly. He covered his money trails impeccably. He was very careful about what money was deposited where, and how long it stayed there. It was obviously the money sent by Cartwright, who'd promised to wire it through a legitimate American organization. Winters realized that he had not checked the source of those funds, and that he'd trusted Cartwright.
I'm slipping, he marveled, I'm really slipping. What was I thinking?
In the filing cabinet at his desk, Winters feverishly searched for the documents that showed the money trail. He studied it. It was perfect, as usual. In fact, Cartwright had done as he had promised: funneling the money through various legitimate American organizations. It looked like a completely genuine campaign donation.
How had the media been tipped off?
Winters knew that someone very smart had dug very deep into his financial affairs to discover the truth. Someone who had knowledge of how to trace money.
Suddenly, Winters froze. He spent several moments, his brain in overdrive. Then he snatched up his phone and buzzed Trixie.
"Yes, sir?" she said tentatively.
"Where is Connor Eastleigh?"
"I don't know, sir. I haven't seen him for two days."
"Try to contact him. It's urgent. Don't give up!"
Winters dropped the phone and remembered his very first conversation with the young intern: I suppose you have a degree in political science? Yes, sir, and in forensic accounting. Who better to understand the complexities of a money trail than a forensic accountant, a person trained to find money after the fact?
Winters cursed and threw his document to the floor, then hurled the tumbler from which he'd drunk bourbon across the room. It crashed into the opposite wall and smashed into a million pieces. Winters found it immensely satisfying. He looked around for another glass to throw.
His phone buzzed. It was Trixie, calling to let him know that Connor Eastleigh was not contactable and, indeed, seemed to have fallen off the face of the earth.
Winters spent some more time raging around the office, destroying anything he could get his hands on. He simply couldn't believe that there was someone out there, brash enough, confident enough, and stupid enough, to double-cross him! Didn't they know who he was and of what he was capable? Winters had killed good men for much more minor infractions.
When I find you, he promised Connor Eastleigh, I am going to make you beg for death. I am going to make your final living hours so unpleasant that death will be a release for you. I will find you, my friend, if it's the last thing I do.
Unfortunately for Senator Winters, Connor Eastleigh was long gone, his task accomplished, his name and identity shed like the old skin of a snake.
* * * *
Sinclair said vehemently, "She can't go in there! She has no authority with which to negotiate!"
Dinah would have been insulted by his lack of support had she not sensed that his entire body was thrumming with anxiety.
"Sinclair, Dinah was indeed a very good negotiator in her day," said Ferguson. "Probably the best we had. If there is anyone I would send into that house, it'd be her."
"She's not a Bureau employee," argued Sinclair. "If something happens to her in there, it'll be your butt getting kicked from here to Leningrad!"
"I'm happy to go in under your obvious and clear disapproval," said Dinah. "Would that make you happier?"
"Not really," muttered Sinclair.
She turned to Ferguson. "I know I can get through to this guy. I just have a gut feeling that I can find out what he needs. I don't think he's done anything for the sake of inflicting violence upon people. I believe that he is desperately trying to send a message and he's run out of options. I think if I can somehow let him know that his message will be honored, that he'll surrender."
"You think it's that simple?" Ferguson asked skeptically.
"Think about the bombings. He built small bombs — he could have made them much larger to inflict more damage. He could have potentially killed more people. He could have loaded the bombs with nails or ball bearings to inflict maximum injury."
"He could have not bombed anyone at all, Harris," insisted Sinclair. "It takes someone with violent tendencies to carry this plan through. After all, he had to make the bomb, steal the car to put the bomb in, drive there, and detonate it. It was all done in cold blood."
"I know that," Dinah said. "I'm not denying that. I'm simply suggesting that his behavior was nonetheless somewhat regulated, and that's a person I can work with."
"You know I can't send you in there with a weapon," said Ferguson.
"You can't be serious!" exclaimed Sinclair.
"I know," said Dinah. "I want to go in as non-threateningly as possible."
There were several moments of silence, and then Ferguson said: "Okay, you're going in."
Sinclair threw his hands up in the air and shook his head angrily.
"Here are the conditions," said Ferguson. "I want you to call us every half hour, to let us know the situation is stable. If you miss a call-in, I'm sending in the SWAT teams. If the situation suddenly deteriorates, you need to send us a message."
&nb
sp; "Your guys have body heat–reading binoculars, right?" Dinah said. "I'll put my hands up, like he's going to shoot. If you see that, come right in."
"Sinclair, call the suspect and let him know Dinah's coming in," ordered Ferguson.
Sinclair glared at them both and made the call.
"Yes?" Michael answered.
"It's Aaron. How are you guys doing in there?" Sinclair said warmly.
"Just fine. Don't you guys have anything better to do?"
"No, actually we don't. Listen, I'd like to run an idea by you," said Sinclair.
"What?"
"We want to send in a person, to talk to you."
"Why?"
"As a gesture of good faith," explained Sinclair. "We want to prove to you that we're not keen on escalating the situation. If we send one of our own in, you can be assured that we won't assault your house while she's in there. She can find out from you what you need."
There was silence, and then Michael said, "Will she come alone?"
"Yes."
"Unarmed?"
"Yes. But I must stress that we need her to be free to call us every so often, so that we know everyone is safe."
Michael laughed. "You think I'd hurt her?"
"Your track record isn't so hot," said Sinclair bluntly.
"I'm not going to hurt her. Send her in. But she better be alone and unarmed. And if I sense that she's even so much as hinting at calling in the troops, I'm not going to hesitate to push the button and blow this place sky high. You get what I'm saying?"
"Yes, I hear you loud and clear. Her name is Dinah, and she's coming to the front door."
"I'll send my sister to get her, so make sure you tell your snipers to stand down," added Michael.
Dinah was preparing herself to go into the house. Ferguson gave her a cell phone so that she could call in. Otherwise, she was taking nothing else to protect herself.
"I have implicit faith in you, Harris," said Ferguson. "But if the situation starts to get out of control, you need to get out of there. I don't want to have to live with the idea of you martyring yourself on my watch, okay?"
Dinah laughed. "I promise not to do anything stupid." She glanced at Sinclair. "Well. I'm ready to go."
She began the walk across the street toward the house in which Michael and his sister were ensconced.
Sinclair, standing in miserable indecision, suddenly rushed after her and grabbed her arm. "Dinah," he said, his voice a husky growl. "Dinah. Please be safe in there."
Dinah breathed in the sensation of being close to him and looked into his glorious eyes. "Aaron — please trust me. I know what I'm doing."
"I can't lose you," he said desperately.
"It'll be okay," she replied. I have to let you walk away if you won't share my faith.
When he gripped her arms, she felt the worry for her coursing through every vein and muscle in his body. "God is with me," she whispered.
He looked like there were a thousand things he wanted to say but couldn't say any of them. Finally, he simply said, "Just be safe. Don't take any chances. Promise?"
"I promise," she said quietly.
He leaned down and very softly, like a feather on a breeze, brushed her lips softly with his own. Then he turned and walked back to the command post, his fists clenched with tension.
Dinah stared after him with wonder, her heart conflicted. She faced the house and walked toward it — alone, unarmed, unprotected. Just a woman, and her God.
* * * *
When Dinah knocked on the door of the little bungalow, she felt as though she had entered another time zone or another planet. The house was so normal looking, and yet so extraordinary. The door opened a crack and a sliver of a woman's facial features became apparent. "Are you alone?" she hissed.
"Yes," said Dinah.
"I'm going to stand behind the door while you come in," said the woman. "Michael has a gun ready to shoot if anything funny goes down, okay?"
"Okay."
The door swung open a little bit more, enough for Dinah to slide through sideways. The woman slammed it shut when she was barely through, ramming the deadbolts home. A tall man, partially hidden in a doorway, aimed a semi-automatic pistol at her. Dinah said calmly, "It's just me. I have no gun or weapon. You can search me if you like."
They waited in the thick atmosphere of tension, Michael obviously expecting a trick. Finally, he lowered his gun and beckoned them both to the back of the house, where he'd been sitting at the kitchen table.
Dinah followed them carefully and sat down at the table. "I'm Dinah," she said. "You must be Michael."
"Right, and this is my sister Isabelle," he replied.
Dinah tried to observe them as casually as possible. Both looked tired and dispirited. Michael was tall and built like an athlete — wide, powerful shoulders, a narrow waist, and strong legs. He had shaved his hair very short and his wide face showed the competing emotions that afflicted him. Isabelle was smaller and thinner, with brown eyes that seemed perpetually worried, and quick, nervous gestures.
"Are you guys doing okay?" Dinah asked. "Are you hungry or thirsty?"
"We're okay," said Isabelle. "There's food and water in the fridge."
"Great. Isabelle, can I ask if you are here by choice or being held against your will?" Dinah asked. Nothing like getting straight to the point.
"I'm here by choice," the other woman declared. "I'm not abandoning my brother. He needs me." Dinah filed this away carefully. Outside, the SWAT teams had assumed the lady was a hostage — but she wasn't.
"Sure, I can understand that," said Dinah with a smile. "So Michael, can we talk about the bombs?"
He shrugged. "Knock yourself out." There didn't seem to be an ounce of struggle or violence left in him. He appeared to be thoroughly dejected, waiting for an outcome over which he had no control.
"Where did you learn to build bombs?" she asked casually.
He looked steadily at her. "You didn't find out during your investigations?"
"Well, I only know a little," said Dinah. "I understand you worked in a granite quarry in Vermont?" From Isabelle's posture, Dinah saw that she was just as interested in the answer.
"Right. I was responsible for sourcing and setting up the ANFO," said Michael. "It was brought into the mine in plastic bags, pre-mixed. All I had to do was add the primary explosive."
"That's what you did when you bombed the churches?"
Michael nodded. Dinah continued, "So you worked there about three years ago and you started stealing the pre-mixed ANFO back then? Did you have a plan for these bombings?"
Michael glanced at Isabelle as if he was afraid of her reaction to his answer. "I always fantasized about this, you know."
"About bombing churches?"
"Well, just about my church for a while there," said Michael. "Then I guess it expanded to include other churches."
"So you always had a plan to do this?"
Michael considered. "Not in concrete, but since I was fantasizing about it, I saw the opportunity."
Dinah nodded. "Okay." She glanced at her watch. "I have to call my boss and let him know we're all okay. I'm going to put my hand in my pocket and get out my cell phone, okay?"
Michael nodded and watched her carefully.
Dinah called the saved number and Sinclair answered, almost frantically: "Dinah?"
"We're all okay," she said calmly. "Having a really good talk."
"Okay, okay," he said, sounding relieved.
Dinah hung up and smiled at Michael and Isabelle. "I really appreciate that you're talking to me so honestly. I understand this can't be easy for you."
Isabelle expelled a rush of air, as if to say, You're telling me.
Michael looked hollow-eyed. "What else am I gonna do?"
Dinah catalogued this: he appeared and spoke with a defeatist air, as if he'd already given up. She wouldn't have been at all surprised to learn he was planning to die in this house.
"So how did you choose the c
hurches?" she asked. "It looked random, but I know it couldn't have been."
Michael smiled. "No, it wasn't random. I found them in a lawsuit."
Dinah pretended to know nothing about the lawsuit. "Really? What lawsuit?"
"I'm a paralegal," explained Michael. "The firm I work for donates hours to the American Humanist Association and they needed a draft of a lawsuit written. That's how I came across the churches."
"The lawsuit targeted three churches?" Dinah asked.
"No, there were other organizations," admitted Michael. "But when I researched them all, the churches stood out to me. They made me angry."
"Why?" Dinah pressed.
Michael clenched and unclenched the muscles in his jaw. "Because they're protecting abusers."
Dinah processed this. "Abusers?"
"Men and women who abuse children," hissed Michael. "That's who they're protecting. That made me angry!" He was suddenly agitated and he stood up. "I hate them!" he snapped. "They are self-serving and hypocritical! They don't care about the welfare of children!"
Dinah sensed him spiraling out of control and backed off.
Michael paced into the living room to check the curtains and doors.
Dinah looked over at Isabelle, a question in her eyes.
"He hates abusers," said Isabelle, "because we were the victims of one. Our father was an abuser."
Dinah took the opportunity to call the command post again and let them know they were all okay. During that time, Michael had sufficiently calmed down enough to return to the kitchen table with a can of soda.
"How were these churches protecting abusers?" Dinah asked in her gentlest tone.
"Well, take the Catholic church," said Michael. The nervous tension in his body made it impossible for him to sit still. He flicked at the soda can while he spoke. "They ran a phone domestic violence counseling service."
"Right," said Dinah. "Isn't that a good thing?"
Michael gave her a withering look. "It's a counseling service for men, Dinah. Not for the abused, but for the abusers."
Dinah nodded and chose her words carefully. "Okay, but what if those men are seeking help to stop abusing their wives and children? What if they're reaching out for help?"