“Every act of violence must be related to a specific injustice, and it’s crucial that we explain what we’re doing and why in a Manifesto.” Lawrence paused. “Our first Manifesto and first act of retribution will be dedicated to the victims of the My Lai Massacre.”
People began to talk all at once, but Lawrence held up his hand. “We’ll call it Project George,” he said. “We’re going to blow up the statue of George Washington in Union Square Park.”
“Finally,” Steve called out. “Count me in.”
“Me, too,” Albert said.
“How are we going to blow up anything?” Gary asked. “Do we know anything about bombs?”
The room went quiet and everyone turned to Lawrence. In the wavering candlelight, his features seemed to sag, but then he forced out a smile. “Come with me, comrades.” He strode out of the room to the little mudroom, then down into the basement.
Di pushed her way through the crowd on the stairwell and leaned over the rough wood banister. The basement had been transformed since she’d been down here with Lawrence a few weeks before at the Halloween party. In the center of the room was a printing press and folding tables piled with cartons. But of greater interest was the workbench against the brick wall where Lawrence stood beside Gertrude.
“This, comrades,” Lawrence shouted over the noise. He waited until everyone quieted down. “This, comrades, is our bomb factory.”
On the workbench, Di could make out bottles, pipes, small boxes of nails, metal cans of lighter fluid. She watched Lawrence glance at the table, then meet Gertrude’s eyes. Di felt a pang of jealousy. Lawrence and Gertrude shared something she wasn’t a part of.
“We must treat these bombs with respect,” Lawrence said to the group, as Gertrude reached into her pocket and pulled out a cigarette and a matchbook. “Our goal is attention and recognition through destruction of property,” he said. “We are not going to kill anyone.”
Gertrude got ready to strike the match, just as Lawrence’s hand closed over hers. “What the fuck are you doing?” he said.
She flicked her braid over her shoulder and stared at him. “Blow up a statue?” She pulled her hand out of his. “That’s the best you can do?”
Lawrence clenched his jaw.
Gertrude turned to the group. “If we want to be heard, we need to make a bigger bang.”
The people around Di seemed to shrink, as though they wanted to disappear.
“Who’s with me on this?” Gertrude shouted.
No one spoke. Lawrence was breathing hard, his fists in tight balls.
“You say you want to change the world,” Gertrude said, “but you don’t mean it. None of you are ready to do what it takes.” She met Di’s eyes.
Di winced, exposed for all to see by her roommate. All her pronouncements about wanting to stop injustice, her mission to prevent another Holocaust. It was just talk.
“To stop violence, we must be violent,” Gertrude said. “To stop murder, we have to kill. If we want to go forward, we have to destroy,” she shouted. “Someone must die!”
The blare of a honking horn brought Diana back to the present. Back from an old nightmare to the one she was living.
In less than twelve hours, someone was planning to kill Ethan unless she killed Jonathan first.
That was the deal.
She shook her head. The dizziness had passed.
In order to go forward, you needed to destroy. That had been their mantra. Someone must die.
She watched the traffic streaming by on Brickell Avenue, then stood and slowly walked back in the blinding brightness toward Jonathan’s towering building.
Hoping she could think of another way.
CHAPTER 27
The sun was too bright, almost painful, the angle different from what Aubrey had grown accustomed to in Rhode Island. Here in Miami, the colors were brighter, like a movie shown in high definition.
And yet, the things Aubrey needed most to see remained veiled to her. Her visit to the Simmers’ command post had provided no more clarity. If anything, she had left there even more perplexed, especially by her father’s erratic behavior—his implication, then denial, that he had some idea who was behind the kidnapping.
She turned the corner to her childhood home. Tom Smolleck was leaning against one of the black cars talking on his phone. He signaled to her to wait a minute while he finished up his call. The sun hit him directly, and there was a gleam of perspiration on his forehead just beneath his buzz cut. He ended his call and came toward her, his badge prominent at his waist.
“Do you have a few minutes?” he asked.
She was anxious to get back to her computer research, but he was, after all, the FBI. “Of course.”
“Let’s go for a ride.”
She almost asked what he wanted from her, but decided she’d find out soon enough. Besides, she had questions for him.
“How are you doing with the investigation?” she asked as he drove down the narrow, bumpy street. “Any possible suspects from the crowd scenes at the carnival?”
He turned onto Tigertail. “Your observations about the two suspicious-looking people in the photos were good ones,” he said. “We had also noticed the woman with the sunglasses and the man with the tattoo sleeves. We’re in the process of identifying them.”
“My father told me the K-9 dogs found a napkin with Ethan’s scent on it at the carnival. Were there any usable prints?”
“The only prints we were able to pull were your mother’s.” He stopped at a traffic light, lips pursed as though he were trying to decide something, then he turned to her. “Let’s get something to eat.” Apparently, he was planning to turn this into a long conversation. “Is there someplace near here?”
“I like Scotty’s, but it’s outdoors, so you might prefer—”
“How do I get there?”
She gave him directions, and they made it to the restaurant in a couple of minutes. He pulled into the near-empty parking lot, and they got out. It was hot in the sun, but a breeze was coming off the bay.