Chapter 11

Special Agent Tim Garber was a short man, five-eight or nine, with short-cropped hair, graying at the temples, a fighting bantam rooster with sharp knives strapped to his tongue, not his legs. Speaking with the man was a bloody experience. His voice grated like a dentist's drill without Novocain, and what he had to say was much ado about nothing.

He spent the first half of our meeting talking about the explosive device as if Grace and I were bomb experts. I spoke English, Mandarin and Cantonese. Garber spoke Greek. Oh, it was English, but it was Greek to me.

I finally interrupted his litany about the bomb's components. "That's interesting, Special Agent Garber, but what does knowing about how the bomb was made tell you?" I said.

He gave me a superior smile and said, "A bomb is like a fingerprint or a signature, young man. It tells us who made it."

That made me sit up in my chair.

"Usually," Garber hurried to add. "Unfortunately this bomb hasn't given up the identity of the person who assembled it."

I relaxed back into my slump.

"But," Garber said, "we have other forensic evidence that points us toward the perpetrator."

"Perpetrator, you said, not perpetrators," I said. "So, you're looking for one person, not a group or an organization."

"I didn't say that," Garber said.

"Are you saying that you don't know whether one person or an organization is responsible for that heinous crime?"

"I didn't say that either," he said. "We are purposefully keeping all lines of inquiry open," he said.

I shook my head with frustration. "Can you say that a perpetrator targeted one or more of the victims for death, which made the other victims collateral damage, including my parents?"

"I cannot."

"So, you believe the bombing was an act of terror."

"I didn't say that."

"I know you didn't say that, Agent Garber. I'm trying to determine what you know." If anything, I added silently.

"That's Special Agent Garber, please," he said.

"Special Agent Garber, besides the components of the bomb, which you seem to know in excruciating detail, what do you know?"

He glared at me. I stifled a laugh.

"Has anyone claimed responsibility for the despicable crime?" I asked.

He said nothing.

"Surely you know the answer to that question," I said.

"I don't appreciate your attitude, young man."

"Which makes us even, sir. But how we feel about each other doesn't matter. Please, answer my question."

He didn't speak. I waited. The seconds ticked away. Finally he spoke through tight lips. "We received over one hundred calls claiming responsibility."

"Did any of them prove valid?" I asked.

"We're still investigating them, but at this point, none appear valid."

"Thank you for your candor, Special Agent Garber. If a terrorist organization, homegrown or foreign, didn't commit the crime, have you concluded that a lone madman planted the bomb for some sick reason only the madman would understand?"

"We have made no such conclusion."

Here we go again, I thought. Round and round. Where we stop no one knows, most of all me.

"So," I said, "a lone madman scenario is a possibility that you're still investigating."

"Yes."

"Have you ruled out that one person wanted to kill one or two of the victims and was willing to indiscriminately kill so many others to achieve that end?"

"We have not."

"Then may I assume that you have thoroughly investigated the background of each of the victims to determine if someone had a grudge or another reason to kill one or two of them?"

"That would be a correct assumption."

It was also a lie. Grace and I hadn't been contacted or questioned.

"Was your investigation fruitful?" I asked.

"That avenue of our investigation is ongoing."

"Does that mean that so far you haven't found a specific victim you can point at as the bomber's target?"

"Over half of the victims had enemies, young man."

"I'm pressing you on this line of inquiry because after my interview with Ms. Campbell on television, I received an anonymous telephone call from someone who claimed that Julian Stewart was the bomber's target. His exact and only words were, 'Your parents died because Julian Stewart learned about something he wasn't supposed to know.' That's it, Special Agent Garber. That's all he said. I don't know if he was a nutcase, or if he actually knew Stewart was the target, or if he was guessing. I will say that after my television debut, I received a number of calls from nutcases. Still, for some reason, that particular call rang true, so I thought I'd pass it on to you today."

Before driving to the FBI offices, Grace and I had agreed to present Mary's theory. Mary had remained steadfast. I had to name her half-brother as the possible target, or she would.

"You should have called me immediately after receiving that call," Garber said, his pale eyes glinting with anger. "Withholding information about a Federal crime is a crime in and of itself, young man."

"And leave yet another message in your voice mail to go unnoticed like my other calls. I don't think so," I said. "And I've withheld nothing. I just told you what I know."

We were going nowhere fast. I took a deep breath. "To summarize, the FBI lab did a crackerjack job identifying the components and makeup of the bomb, but your subsequent investigation of those components and the 'signature' of the bomber produced no suspects. Correct?"

He said nothing, but his face started to turn red.

"To continue," I said. "The FBI does not know or refuses to tell my sister and me whether this heinous crime was committed by a terrorist organization, home grown or foreign, by a lone madman with a motive we wouldn't understand if we knew it, or by a person who wanted to kill one or more of the victims and was evil enough to kill the other patrons and employees in the lounge to achieve his end. Correct?"

He said nothing. His face got redder.

"Special Agent Garber, do you have any suspects?" I asked.

"Yes," he hissed.

"One or more than one?"

"More than one."

"In which scenario do these suspects fall: the terrorist organization scenario, the lone madman scenario, or the murderer willing to kill others to achieve his end scenario?"

He said nothing. His face got redder still.

"Surely you can classify your suspects," I said.

"We have suspects in all three of your scenarios, young man."

"Your emphasis implies that there are other scenarios. If so, I'd like to hear them," I said.

"That's your inference, not my implication," he said.

"Will you meet with me again in two weeks to review your progress in solving my parents' murders?"

"You'll be contacted when it's appropriate."

"What does that mean?"

"My words weren't ambiguous."

"You, sir, are the epitome of ambiguity. You have told me nothing today."

"I answered your questions."

His face was swollen and red, ready to explode. Could I pop his gasket?

"You did not. You were very careful to phrase every answer in a way that told me nothing. I've been here an hour, but I still don't know if you've made any progress in solving this crime. In fact, except for the makeup of the bomb, I know nothing more about your secret investigation than when I arrived here for this meeting. You've demeaned me by referring to me as 'young man' in a belligerent tone of voice, yet demanded that I refer to you using your full title. You are not a public servant, sir. You are a pompous ass, and I'm going over your head to get the answers I deserve." I pushed back my chair. "Let's go, Grace."

Grace was curiously silent during the drive to our house after our meeting with Garber.

"What?" I huffed when I couldn't take her silence any longer.

She looked at me and shook her head. "You went too far, Brent. You made that man your enemy. When he finds out you've been helping Mary, the source of your disclosure that Julian Stewart was targeted by the bomber, he's going to arrest you for misleading a federal officer."

"Interesting," I said. "You're distancing yourself from me. I helped Mary, you said, as if you haven't helped her. The source of my disclosure, you said, as if you and I hadn't agreed how to make the disclosure before the meeting started. I don't understand, Grace"

"That's not what I meant. You're twisting my words now like you twisted Garber's"

All the air whooshed from my lungs. I didn't say anything until I pulled onto our driveway at the house. I put the transmission in park but didn't turn off the engine. Grace sat staring straight ahead.

"I don't understand," I said again. "I didn't twist Garber's words. He twisted his own words. I couldn't have twisted them into tighter knots if I'd tried. I spent our time with him trying to untwist them, unsuccessfully, I might add. My caustic reaction to your comments that made me feel like you were distancing yourself from me was out of line. I apologize, but in my defense, I have been feeling like you've been distancing yourself from me since our return from San Francisco. That's what I don't understand, Grace."

She didn't look at me. She continued to stare straight ahead.

"I could be wrong. If I am, tell me, but if I'm not, I'd like to know why?" I said.

She spun toward me. "You hurt Mary. I asked you to help her, and instead you went to your studio and painted all night. This morning, you pushed Mary around about her apartment until I was embarrassed for you, because you certainly weren't embarrassed for yourself. And then you met with an FBI agent and pushed him around, too. You called him a pompous ass, for chissake! If anyone was a pompous ass in that meeting, it was you. How much cooperation do you think he'll give us after the way you treated him?"

I turned off the engine and stepped from the truck. I went directly to my room and packed a bag. I put it in my truck and drove away. I'd need money, but I figured Agnes was good for a loan until the courts declared me an adult, so I could finally manage my own money.

I painted until my eyes felt like two burnt holes in a blanket. I crashed, woke up, made a cup of tea, and started to paint again. My work was different, darker, almost ominous, but it was good work. I broke new ground. My understanding of the tools of my art moved beyond what I'd learned as Jane Wilson.

Time slipped by. Sunlight coming through the clerestory glass let me know when it was daytime. I turned on the lights to work at night. I ate when I got hungry enough to notice. I let the machine answer my calls and refused to answer the door when someone banged on it. I didn't take a shower or change my clothes. When I ran out of food, I went to an all-night grocery and didn't have enough cash to pay for everything in my basket. I didn't care. I let them take back what I couldn't pay for and returned to my studio and my art.

I painted and ate and slept. That's it.

No, that's not it. I cried too. Not out loud. Tears just happened. For no apparent reason, they formed in my eyes and overflowed, streaking my dirty cheeks.

In other words, I went off the deep end.

Agnes saved me when I went to her for a loan. I'd run out of food again, and I needed oil paints and other art supplies.

"You look like shit," she said.

"I'm doing good work," I said.

"Do you know what day it is?"

I said nothing.

"Thought so," she said. "Okay, I'll loan you some money but there are conditions attached to the loan."

"What conditions? I'm completely out of white paint. I can't work without white. You know that."

"Condition number one. You stink. Go take a shower and change clothes."

"I can do that. What else?"

"Talk to your sister."

I shook my head. "She doesn't want to talk with me. She thinks I'm a pompous ass." I giggled. "She's probably right about that."

Agnes shrugged. "Call her or no loan."

"What are your other conditions?"

"Answer your phone when it rings. Open your door when someone knocks. Shower and change your clothes every day. Eat one meal a day somewhere besides your studio. Exercise daily. And last but not least, let me use your kitchen again."

"I'll agree to everything except calling Grace," I said.

"Will you talk to her if she calls you?"

"Yes. I'd have to. I agreed to answer my phones. What day is it?"

She laughed and shook her head. "It's Thursday. You locked yourself in your studio a week ago last Tuesday. That's nine days, Brent."

"Come on," I said. "I've been doing good work. You can look it over while I shower and change clothes. How much cash to you have? I don't have any food, either."

"Not much, but I have a debit card," she said. "I'll buy the art supplies and groceries you need today, and we'll stop by my bank and get you some cash, but if you don't abide by my conditions, Brent, don't come to me for money again."

"I'm good for the money, Agnes," I said as we walked toward my studio.

"I know you are. That's not the point."

I nodded. "Thanks, Agnes. You're a friend."

"Yes, I am. Your only friend. I almost made making other friends a condition of the loan, but I figured that might be too difficult for you handle."

I laughed. "You figured right."

After taking a shower and dressing, I found Agnes and Grace on the studio floor looking at my work. Agnes noticed me standing at the loft railing above them.

"You were right, Brent," she yelled up at me. "This is very good work."

I nodded. I wasn't looking at Agnes. Grace had captured my entire attention.

"Hello, Grace," I said. I didn't yell. She heard me, though.

"Hi, Brent. Agnes called me," Grace said.

"I figured, the traitor."

Agnes hooted. "Guilty as charged and proud of it," she said when she stopped laughing.

I walked down the stairs and approached them.

"Grace, you get more beautiful every day," I said.

Tears welled in her eyes. "I need a hug," she said.

I held out my arms, and she moved into them. She hugged me fiercely. "I'm sorry," she said.

"No need to be sorry," I said. "You were right on all counts. I was being a pompous ass. I did make an enemy out of Garber. I pushed Mary around about her apartment, and most of all you were right to distance yourself from me. How's Mary, by the way? Little Bundle, too?"

"Fine."

"I was going to send out a security specialist to do a security survey of Mary's apartment. It occurs to me that I didn't do that. I didn't do a lot of things. I... I sort of went off the deep end, Grace."

"Mary handled the security issue herself," Grace said. "You need to call her. Like me, she's been very worried about you."

"I will. I also missed Pete's visit. How is he? Did he do the deal here in Phoenix?"

"Pete's fine. He passed on the deal. At my request, he did bang on your door while he was here. You told him to go away. You told everyone to go away."

"I'm sorry. I went a little nuts, Grace."

My belly growled.

I shrugged and, with a sheepish look, said, "I ran out of food a while back."

"How far back?" Grace asked, looking worried.

Agnes laughed. "Hell, Grace, when he came to me, he didn't know what day it was. Come on, bucko, we'll get you some food, and then shop for what you need."

"You don't need to borrow money from Agnes," Grace said.

"I'd rather," I said.

That was the wrong thing to say. Grace started to cry.

Agnes glared at me and shook her head.

I started to take Grace into my arms again, but she squared her shoulders and brushed the tears away with the tips of her fingers. She said, "You don't need to borrow money from Agnes because Uncle Sam backed off his ill-conceived attempt to be your guardian, Brent. He said that after the San Francisco encounter he realized you're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself and would support your petition for emancipation. He released the holds on the bank accounts, so I met with the executor of Mom and Dad's estate, and he transferred your money to me, except the insurance settlement. He'll transfer that money directly to you after the emancipation hearing."

"What caused Uncle Sam's attitude change was his realization that he couldn't win. That's why he backed off," I said.

"Probably, anyway you don't need a loan. You have access to your own money."

"Shit," Agnes said. "I had it all worked out so that Brent could become human again. Shit."

I laughed. "Fair's fair, my only friend. Loan or not, I'll abide by your conditions," I said. "Let's go eat. I'm buying." I looked at Grace. "If you'll give me a loan until I can get at my money."

That produced a happy smile.

I didn't call Mary. I knocked on her apartment door. She opened it, saw me, and slammed the door in my face. I turned to walk away, stopping when I heard her door open again.

"Come back, Brent," Mary said. "You're welcome here. After all, you made it possible for me to have my own place. It's just that I'm so angry with you, I could... I don't know what I could do. I'd say I'd slap you silly, but I'm not a violent person. I'm usually pretty calm, but... oh, God, I'm babbling."

She wrapped her arms around my neck, and moving against me, she kissed me silly instead of slapping me silly. She leaned back from the kiss, gazed into my eyes and shook her head.

"Come in, come in," she said. "When did you climb out from under the rock where you've been hiding?"

"Today. I came to apologize. I went a little crazy, Mary."

"I know about being a little crazy. I've visited that frame of mind a few times. What you did, Brent, it wasn't right. You broke Grace's heart. She was wrong; she knew she was wrong, but she couldn't move that rock you crawled under to tell you how badly she felt about what she said to you, about what she was doing to you. Have you spoken with her?"

"Yes. This is a nice apartment, Mary." I was looking around, but not at the apartment. "Ah, there she is. Hi, little Joy! How's my favorite little girl in the whole wide world?"

She was lying on a blanket on the floor, so I stretched out beside her. She grinned at me and I melted.

"You get prettier every day, Little Bundle," I said and tickled her under her cute chin. She crawled up closer to me. "Hey, you're crawling!" I looked up at Mary. "When did she start crawling?"

"Oh, she's been crawling for ages. She's pulling herself up onto her feet now. She stands there proud as punch but hangs on for dear life. I think she's missed you. I know I have."

Joy crawled on top of my chest and gave me a wet kiss. I hugged her and rolled back and forth on my back. She giggled.

"Grace tells me you're working, Mary," I said.