Camilla's brother, Lujuan Willaims, a light-skinned closeted bi-sexual, hurried across town to check on Baby Precious, the kitten he'd given Camilla when she first moved into her apartment. He used the house key Camilla gave him, It's my insurance policy, she'd said, for nights I spend away from home.

"Here Precious, come on Precious." Lujuan rattled the bag of dry cat food, stepped inside and closed the door quickly. As he entered the living room he saw a naked white man lying on the floor. "Oh my God. What the fuck has she done now?" Lujuan knelt down and felt the man's pulse with his right hand as he dug into his pocket with his left. "Thank God, he's alive." He dialed 911. Lujuan knew better than tamper with the evidence-his sister was dead, perhaps this was the reason. Did Jason catch them together? Lujuan slid the T-shirt down, covering the nude man's pubes. Then he looked around for a blanket, anything to give the naked man a modicum of dignity before the paramedics arrived. Absently he continued to jiggle the bag of cat food as he walked into the bathroom, grabbing a towel, jiggling and shaking as he walked back to the naked man. Just as he swooped down to cover Kiefer, Precious peeked out from underneath the sofa. Lujuan spread the blanket over Kiefer, swooped up the cat and sat on the sofa, rubbing Precious' ears, picturing Camilla running an errand, knowing she'd come walking back through the front door any moment.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Danh grabbed his cell on the second ring. "Where in the hell have you been? Did you see Tom's widow? Did you find out anything?"

Detective Salmi took a deep breath, "Calm down. I'm doing you a favor, remember?"

"Right. Sorry. I'm edgy. What happened at Tom Kelly house? Did you talk to the widow? Did she give you any information about their relationship?"

"Calm down." Salmi wondered how anyone could work with Nguyen-let alone live with him. He's adding a whole new definition to the word hyper. "I met Tom's wife and kids: they're a delightful family. His daughters are so cute; the oldest just turned four. I don't know how the wife is going to explain Tom Kelly's death to them." Salmi's voice trailed off.

"Did she give you any insights?"

Salmi wanted to tell Danh to chill. "She doesn't know what happened. She doesn't have a clue."

"So there's no evidence linking his murder to the fertilizer plant?"

"None I can see. It appears to be another random murder like that Williams girl in far Southeast." Salmi paused trying to hold back his tears without letting Danh know how much he had gotten attached to Tom Kelly's wife and kids. "I will say this, though, Tom was as close to being a saint as anyone I've ever heard about. He was a local Sunday School teacher, a regular born-again Christian who worked at the homeless shelter on weekends and preached the Gospel of-"

Danh blocked out the references to the 'Lord." He had had enough of that when his first lover, Elliot Wegbright, a Jesus freak, used to attempt suicide after they made love. Jesus hates fags, is all Elliott said before locking himself in his pink flamingo wall papered bathroom and slashing his wrists. After the third attempt Danh left him at the hospital, bandaged and weeping, and got on with his life.

"They're going to bury Tom tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? I thought he was Christian."

"He is, but they're in one of those crazy sects where they practice the ancient Jewish rituals. They circumcise their daughters, uphold the Sabbath, and bury their dead within twenty-four hours . . . otherwise they believe Lord will reject their souls."

And you found all this out in an hour? I bet you'll be bedding the widow within a week.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Camilla's apartment crawled with detectives and medical personnel and LuJuan felt besieged. There must be some shit brewing, he thought. One of the officers snapped Kiefer's photo, but when he tried to download it to the crime lab, he mistyped the address and instead of sending it to www.crimelab.org, he sent it, to www.crimebabe.org, an adult website he viewed during his off-hours.

Nicholas Darby, a regular at the Exile, who cruised every x-rated site in town, stumbled onto Kiefer's nude photos and sat back in his chair. "Jesus, that's Kiefer; I met him at the Exile. He's beat up pretty bad, but that's him." Nicholas opened his phone directory, located Danh Nguyen's number and called him from his computer. "Danh, Nicholas Darby. Remember me? Yeah, that's right, from the Exile. We used to drink together when you were single. No, this isn't a social call." Nicholas thought of the time he and Danh had stood in the men's room, peaking at each other. He'd had dreams about that for months, wondering if that was Danh's tacit signal for him to make a move. He forced his mind to snap back to reality, "I just saw the photo of an assault victim on the net. His balls look like they might have been kicked off."

Danh's call waiting interrupted Nicholas. "I got call, hold on."

"Okay, but I gotta tell you, I met the guy last night-I got his card-I know his name." Nicholas played with the pinking sheared card.

"Hold on."

Damn, I hate it when former tricks call me on my private number. And that's is the lamest pick up line I've ever heard.

Danh's mother was on the other line; it was time for him to choose the lesser of two evils.

"Yeah, Ma, I'll get back to you, yeah, yeah, Right, okay, right away. Sure. Love you, too." Click. "Hey, you still waiting, Nicholas?"

"Yep. Listen, a guy was just beat up in far Southeast. Don't ask how I know-I just know, okay? His name's Kiefer. No, I don't know his last name but I've got his phone number right here, and," Nicholas saved the best for last, "I saw him leave with the hottest guy I ever saw-but the guy was wearing his work shirt with a logo on it that jumped out at me."

"Yea, what was that?"

"It said We make Dead Bugs our Livelihood!"

There was dead air on the other end of the line.

"You still there. Yeah, yeah, I got his number right here. You ready?"Nicholas gave Danh the number twice. "Let me know if you need any more information. I owe you, okay?"

Danh hung up more confused than enlightened. He doesn't owe me the time of day. I wonder when he'll get around to telling me the real reason he called.

Nicholas's list of gay friends wasn't long, but he felt determined to share the information with them all, "Alejandro, Nicholas. Yeah, I know you're in the middle of Gay Pride, but this is important, okay? Remember that guy we met at the Exile? Yeah, the one Carlos was gaga over. I just saw a picture of him on the net. He's beat up pretty bad. Yeah, looks like he got his nuts kicked in. Don't know, the damned thing just showed up on www.crimebabe.org. Check it out. Ha, ha. No, I'm not bi. Wait, there's more coming in, they're taking Kiefer's to Providence. No, it doesn't say. The photos look bad though, real bad. Don't know. Don't know. Spread the word, okay? Somebody has to know something. Right, just make sure your people know. Could be, yeah. Might have something to do with the guy who picked him up the other night. You never know. We'll have to check around. Yeah. The guy's name was Jason-wears a shirt that says We make Dead Bugs our Livelihood! Don't know. Don't know. Don't know.

Across town, in the Office of Homeland Security, Scott Browning was typing a message on his computer to his friend Charlie Schwarz. Scott's desk was covered with stacks of brown file folders, police bulletins, security updates, and half-chewed erasers. His pull-out tray held an egg McMuffin dangling precariously on top a cup of coffee.

"Okay, here's the joke," Scott hunted and pecked, "Big Jim Jones goes to a party, drinks a few martinis and goes into a tirade about how afraid he is of flying."

"I haven't heard this one." Charlie sat at his computer, two floors above. The men bought their McMuffins and coffees together a few minutes before, but they liked to chat on line an hour or so before getting down to the business of tracking down the 'mysterious slasher man,' whom they had jokingly nicknamed the MSM.

"Well it turns out, one of the men who heard him was a statistician."

"Was it MSM? LOL."

Scott ignored the banter, anxious to get back to his joke. "So, Big Jim asks the statistician, 'What're the odds a man would bring a bomb on board a plane?' The statistician paused a moment, pulled out his pocket calculator, did some quick statistical work and said 'it's a 1 in 11,328 chance.'"

"Hold on, Ron's standing here. Let me scroll up so he can read what we've got so far."

Scott waited, wishing Homeland had fewer requirements. Each man had to sit at his desk a minimum of eight hours a day. The rules didn't say what he had to do all that time, only that he had to be at his desk, with time off, of course, for lunch . . . and good behavior.

"Okay, ROS, go ahead." Scott knew Ron was standing Over his Shoulder, he'd already told him that. He's so lame sometimes.

"Big Jim says the odds are too great and leaves. After a while, he comes back and says, 'Hey, what're the odds of two bombs being on the same plane?'"

"LOL. That's funny."

"Hold on. That's not the punch line." Sometimes Scott wanted to reach through the monitor and slap his friend. "The statistician does some complicated computing and says, 'the probably of having two bombs on the same plane is one out of 6.326 million.'"

"Is that it?"

"No. Drink some coffee and wake up, okay?" He typed in a smiley face. The guy leaves the party a happy man. Okay, here comes the punch line. Ready?"

Charlie grimaced at his buddy, Ron. "If he has to tell me the joke's coming, you know it isn't going to be a groaner."

A month later, Big Jim sends an email to the statistician and says, 'I'm over my fear of flying. Thank you.'"

"'Why's that?' The statistician asked."

"'Because', Big Jim replies, 'now I carry my own bomb!'"

"LOL. I get it. Hey, you got any new info on the MSM?"

"Got any extra bombs?"

"No. LOL. Think they'll bring two?"

"LOL."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Rev. Billy B. Abel was many things to many people, but he was also as punctilious as a railroad conductor on the old Baltimore and Ohio Railroad and at precisely three o'clock, he rang the bell at Wanda the Whip Mistress's condo.

Wanda never locked her door; she liked to take control from the start. "Come in, you stupid piece of shit."

Reverend Abel entered, hanging his head down as he did.

"Why are you standing, slave? Strip and kneel before your goddess."

Billy B. stripped to his boxers and fell to the floor, crawling like a snake to his mistress.

"You have five seconds to remove those stinking boxers or I'll beat your ass and rip them off myself."

Billy B. pretended to strip, but knew he needed the ass whipping.

"Come, dog," Wanda pulled down the reverend's boxers and tossed them across the room. "Now, get over the bed. Mistress is going to show you what happens to bad little doggies." Wanda picked up her riding crop and lashed Abel's back, buttocks, and legs. "You were ten minutes late, little doggy. Mistress will give you ten lashes."

Abel often spoke without thinking, "Mistress I was on time. I'm always on time."

"And another twenty for lying, dog."

When she finished, and the hour was nearly up, Wanda ordered Abel to lie on the floor as she sat on his face and farted on him. "I expect a bonus this time, Brother of Cain, and if I don't see an extra hundred dollars in my offering plate, I'll cast you out of my kingdom forever."

Abel had never told the Whip Mistress his name or occupation. To her he was dog and she was Mistress, but now he knew she knew.

Wanda dropped her moist panties over the reverend's face. "Make it an extra two hundred this week, slave . . . and do it for the Lord-if you know what's good for you."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Kiefer's left testicle was surgically removed at 3:15 P.M.-it was beyond salvation. Carlos was sitting next to him when he awoke. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." For a moment Kiefer thought he had died and gone to heaven. He vaguely remembered the fight with Rhonda, walking out on her, and finding a trick, but he also remembered the beating, and he wondered if he'd ever be whole again. "Where's Rhonda? Why isn't she here?"

Carlos saw the stunned look in Kiefer's eyes, "I represent the gay community. I'm here to help you. You don't have to talk if you don't want to, but we go where the problems are and sometimes we get to little problems before they become big ones."

Searing pain over came Kiefer, "My balls? My balls? Are they-"

"You're intact," Carlos lied without hesitation, knowing such things were better left for doctors to explain. What he doesn't know isn't going to hurt him, and he'll function well with one. "We can get you legal help if you need it. What did you tell the police?"

"The truth. I have nothing to hide-not anymore."

"And what is the truth?"

"I picked up a guy named Jason at the Exile and he attacked me."

"Jason? The same Jason I met?"

"Yes."

"Why did he do it? Do you know?"

"He heard something on TV-something about a girl who was murdered. I didn't hear anything after that; I just tried to protect myself."

"I'll check it out. If we can find out what set him off, we'll be able to track him down."

"Tell me again. Why are you so interested in this?"

"I'm with the GLBT March-the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender March. We're going to have twenty million marchers in town tomorrow and another God knows how many supporters. I want to make sure your attacker isn't going to harm anyone else."

"I see." As soon as Carlos left, Kiefer fell asleep, drooling onto the pillow case, comfortable that his manhood was still intact, wondering if he'd ever see Rhonda again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

David sat back and smoked his favorite Cuban cigar. He hadn't smoked in years, but now that all the bombs were in place and he had parked the nitrogen truck next to the McMillan Reservoir, he felt it was time to celebrate.




(The McMillan Reservoir, Washington, D.C.)

"Tomorrow, we'll detonate the bombs and I'll oversee the operation from Morris Road-it's the best vantage point in town-and I'll be able to watch our success."

"And if we're not successful?"

"There's always plan B."

"What's that?"

"A secret," David pursed his lips, knowing his men wouldn't dare ask a second time. If all else fails, I still have the fertilizer truck parked at the reservoir. David smiled, picturing six million gallons of water erupting from the reservoir, cascading down North Capitol Street and inundating the Mall. If my grandmother taught me one thing, it's never to put all your eggs in one basket.

"And you're sure you can detonate the bombs from Morris Road?" Adman asked.

"Yes," David said without hesitation, "No use worrying the men. If Plan A doesn't work, I'll take care of everything," David pictured the city under twenty feet of water-millions of bodies floating, drowning-the Monument, White House, Smithsonian and Capitol Building collapsing on top of them, It'll serve them all fucking right and I'll be high up on Morris Road watching the whole shebang and able to drive to Reagan Airport and fly to Bermuda on my private plane before the Home Land Security clowns have put on their galoshes.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Carlos and Alejandro were the busiest men in the city and, as they headed to Camilla Williams' wake, Carlos said, "You know what they say. If you want something done, ask a busy man."

The men jumped into their Saturn SUV and drove across town to the Wheeler Road Funeral Home, hoping they could blend in with the crowd but realizing that, more than likely, their white faces would be the only ones in that part of town. To their surprise, the paparazzi and half D.C.'s white police officers were already huddled en masse by the time Carlos and Alejandro arrived.

"What's the big deal? Why are there so many cops here?"

"And why so many white ones? I thought the force was all black!"

Alejandro stood as close to the casket as he could, listening, as Carlos worked the room, secretly recording all the conversations that mentioned Camilla's love life.

"Jason's gonna be devastated."

"Where is that man?

"Did anyone bother to call him?"

"I did," Camilla's mother was standing a few feet from the men. "Jason knows all about 'Milla and her baby. I left him a voice mail late last night."

Carlos headed over to Alejandro. "What have you found out?"

"Camilla's boyfriend is the guy Keifer told me about. Seems he's been in and out of jail more often than coffee in a microwave."

"Did you get his last name?"

"No."

"Okay, I'll mention his name to someone; perhaps they'll fill in the blanks."

"Cool."

"Come on, follow me." Carlos wove his way through the crowd until he reached a group of young women. None of them was teary eyed, but all they all were looking at the mourners trying to find the hottest guys. "What a place for a pick up?" Carlos whispered to Alejandro. "It's like a gay bar at closing. Listen and learn." Carlos approached one of the young women. "Are you okay? I've noticed the tears and thought I could help."

The girl had not been crying, but she would have been the last person to admit it, "I'm just fine," she said, gazing up at Carlos's dark green eyes. "Camilla was so close, she was like my sister."

"I didn't know Camilla well; I just met her last week."

"At the hair dressing academy"

"Yes, do you work there?"

"No, I get my hair done there every other Friday; it's the best place in town if you're on a budget."

"I'll have to remember that." Carlos rubbed his wavy hair several times, watching the girl's eyes as she continued to hit on him."

"And I never met Jason, ah . . . I forgot his last name."

She looked at Carlos as if he was retarded, "Brown," she said. "They was gonna get married."

"Right, I forgot. I'll have to give Jason my condolences." Carlos knew his words were empty, but he didn't care. "Excuse me, my friend's waving at me."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

David Burns stood atop the ridge on Morris Road overlooking the city. From this vantage point, he could see the entire Mall, all the museums, the Washington Monument, and the Capitol building. Tilting his head a few degrees to the left, he could see the planes landing at National Airport, the George Washington Masonic Temple, and the far-off towers of the office building complexes that made up Tyson's Corners. Swinging his head to the right he saw the Washington Cathedral, upper Georgetown, and the distant Bethesda Naval Hospital. I wonder why L'Enfant didn't build the central city here-visually, it's the most perfect view in the county. David was pleased he'd purchase options on a thirty acre parcel stretching along the top of Morris Road. Once the central core is gone, they'll have to rebuild . . . and this is the only logical place: it has the best view of the Tiber Creek, and, David speculated, our new leaders just might be able to see outside the Beltway for the first time in their lives. David smiled. The term "outside the beltway" had been a bugaboo for every politician since Nixon: it defined the narrow-mindedness of the nation's leaders as being unable to see beyond Route 495, the circular highway that enclosed Washington, cutting it off from the civilized world.

David opened his laptop, testing his system to make sure he'd be able to detonate the bombs from Morris Road. He keyed in the phrase, "Test, Test, Tiber Test." And the digital camera he placed at the Foggy Bottom tunnel came on. He saw the platform and the trashcan. David typed, "Turn 180" and waited as the camera turned 180 degrees and focused on the black tunnel. He couldn't see anything for a moment. Then a train tore down the track. That's good. The camera's pointing in the right direction. David waited for the train to load and speed away. Then he typed in "Explode Now," waiting for a brief puff of smoke to occur just outside the tunnel door where he'd planted a smoke bomb the night before. If anyone sees the smoke, they'll assume it's just another newspaper that slipped onto the third rail and caught fire . . . and if they investigate, they won't find a thing. David waited. Then he pressed the control button again, sending the signal back to Foggy Bottom, but nothing happened. "Damn. Jason may be right. I might have to be closer to make this work."

David drove quickly down Martin Luther King Avenue, across the Eleventh Street Bridge into the heart of Capitol Hill. He parked on Eighth and F and walked the four blocks to Mr. Henry's. "A table for eighteen," he said as he entered, but the server knew him well enough to seat him alone by the front window. David ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a Miller Lite and opened his laptop. Again, he pressed the command, "Explode now" and this time he saw a puff of smoke fill the tunnel just as a train raced down the track. I can set off the bombs from here-I'm on high enough ground-I just won't have as much fun watching the God damn city slither into the swamp. David drank his beer and dumped half a bottle of ketchup on his burger. I'll coordinate everything from here and after the explosion, I'll walk over to Lincoln Park and stand on top of the statue of Mary McCloud Bethune. It'll be the safest place to watch a couple million faggots run for their lives. David almost choked on his sandwich, thinking of the carnage he'd cause, laughing at the double irony of eating lunch in a faggot restaurant like Mr. Henry's in the gayest part of Capitol Hill while planning the mass extermination of millions of homos, but David's mind never stopped worrying about complications, I'll send Adman to Morris Road with a backup program as insurance and as a decoy, and if the cops catch me, I'll tell them I've got another man waiting in the wings to blow up their whole God damned city. David glanced down into the window seat and saw a copy of the Washington Blade-D.C.'s gay newspaper. He wanted to crumple it into a wad, set it on fire and start the revolution right there in the heart of Fag Land-he wanted to see all their faggoty asses burned to hell.

Antwoine Jones, the six foot-nine inch scrawny headwaiter who joked that his friends could always spot a headwaiter because of the dirt on his knees, swiveled his hips and limp-wristed himself across the crowded restaurant. "Ready for another beer?"

"No, I'm fine," David said. "Everything's fine. Are you marching tomorrow?"

"The whole town's marching tomorrow," Antwoine looked depressed, "but we didn't get our tickets until late-we're going to be all the way up Sixteenth Street in Meridian Hill Park, we won't see a damned-" Antwoine's voice faded off.

"Here, take this," David handed him Adman's vendor's pass. "You can sit inside our hot dog stand on the corner of Twelfth and Constitution. Best seats in town. Invite your friends. There's room for everyone. Be right downtown where the action is" As Antwoine bussed the table, David thought, Knowing one of them, face to face, makes this all worthwhile!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Danh had nearly finished burning both ends of the candle. He had almost forgotten what sleep felt like, but he continued his routine as if he were a zombie, running back and forth to the hospital, doing late night patrols, phoning, investigating, working his part time L'Enfant job, and never sitting down to eat. And now his headaches were overpowering. He paused for a moment, unsure of exactly where he was-why he was here at L'Enfant instead of by Michael's side.

He took a deep breath and woke up and as he got out of his car, he noticed that strange van again, We make Dead Bugs our Livelihood! and he had an epiphany. "David Burns is the owner of We make Dead Bugs our Livelihood! . That's a holding company for the fertilizer plant, We Grow on You, which manufactures nitrogen. Bombs are made out of nitrogen. Tom Kelly worked at We Grow on You and now he's dead. It can't just be circumstantial. There are just too many events adding up. The Only Good Bug has to be the link. David Burns is the owner. Burns is also trying to buy the fertilizer plant. But is that enough evidence-hard core evidence-to convince the chief that Burns is the brains behind this? I don't know but I'd better call the captain-better safe than sorry."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Back at headquarters, Capitan Garner held another meeting about the logistics of the up-coming march and the possibility of multiple bombings in the city.

"Which splinter groups are capable of planting bombs in D.C.?"

"All of them. They all have access to fertilizer and everybody knows how to Google the formula."

"And we have the map showing the old Tiber Creek. How difficult would it be to blow up the land just above the canal, implode the city and, as twenty million demonstrators run for their lives, watch the city fall into the river?"

"It could work if they planted enough explosives in the right spots," Computer expert Eliot Scanlon licked off a piece of pizza sauce from the bottom of his tie as he searched the net for Spy-in-the-Sky infrared aerial surveillance photos of downtown D.C. "Holy crap," Scanlon sat back in his chair. "The Spy in the Sky program located the water gates-they're still exactly where the old map showed them. Probably still functional. If they break, we'll split in two."

Garner mumbled, "I thought we already established that. What are you suggesting? Navy Seals? Scuba divers?"

"Perhaps, but we have to assume the terrorists are well organized. They could have hidden a mile-long line of explosives from Foggy Bottom to Stadium Armory-they might even have bombs placed along the Anacostia-you don't know how insidious their plot might be."

"How far can the Metro flood-I mean the subway starts going uphill when it gets to the Capitol, right?

"Isn't losing the Mall enough?" Garner wanted to scream. "The target must be the homosexuals. What time are they scheduled to march?"

"Noon tomorrow."

"So most of them will be in the Metro from what? Ten A.M.?"

"More like opening. The Metro will be packed by six."

"Damn, so if we're right, the Orange and Blue lines will be flooded from Foggy Bottom to the foot of Capitol Hill. We've got to close the entire system now!"

"And leave the city without transportation? Not even Homeland can do that. Nobody can close down the entire system like that."

"I can," Garner said.

Danh Nguyen entered the room before Captain Garner finished talking. "You don't have to close everything down, captain. I think I've figured it all out. The terrorists operate a company known as We make Dead Bugs our Livelihood! , posing as exterminators. What they really want is to exterminate a million gays and lesbians."

"We know everything," Captain Garner let his voice linger over the word 'everything'; only those closest to him knew that was his way of bluffing. Garner was not going to be upstaged by one of his officers. "We've dispatched bomb squads to Foggy and we're sending more teams to the other affected areas. We've also deployed our dog sniffing teams. This problem has been defused." There was a scattered snickering sound as a few officers got the double entendre. "We're going to handle this quietly. We're not going to panic this city, not on my watch."

"But you just said you were going to close down the-"

"I was just thinking out loud. We've got everything under control."

Several rookies applauded as the old timers headed out to their assignments, anxious to avoid any additional confrontation with Captain Garner.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Noah and Jus Lynch had their own theories about the map. They had been studying it for nearly a week and were determined to locate the treasure. "All the pirates had ships. They must of sailed up the Potomac and hid their treasure somewhere along this red line."

But that's a street. Ships don't sail on streets."

"Maybe it wasn't' a street back then. Maybe it was part of the river."

"That's silly. You can't walk on top of a river."

Noah grabbed his younger brother's hand and led him outside, "Stand here and look." There was a look of excitement in Jus's eyes. "See that creek-it starts up the hill and runs in a big pipe underneath our back yard and it comes out two blocks away. Maybe that's true everywhere. Maybe there are rivers and streams all over the place. Maybe those rivers are in big pipes like the one under us."

"Then the backyard's gonna cave in."

"Someday, sure, and maybe Washington'll cave in, too, but that's not gonna happen for a bazillion years. You and me will be old guys then-as old as Dad."

Jus's mouth fell open. "Maybe the Monument will fall into a big hole. Won't it make a splash big enough to drown us?"

Sometimes Noah wondered if his brother was adopted. "You'll understand more when you're grown up."

"I am grown up."

"No your not."

"Yes I am"

"No you're not."

The jingling sound of the ice cream man drew the boy's attention from the backyard, the canal, and the pirates.

"Ice cream man. Ice cream man. Daddy!"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Detective Salmi walked foot patrol at Union Station, which was one of the most incredible assignments in the city. When he reached the East Gallery, he stood against the far wall and looked up under the shields of the stone sculpted Indians lining the concourse. Everybody in Washington knows the story, Salmi thought. The government hired this weird Italian sculptor to create the warriors and after going around and around for his salary, they only paid him for half, but he didn't get mad. . . . he got even. Salmi craned his neck, peering under the shields that covered the warriors until he saw their penises-long and thick. Serves them right, he thought, serves the God damned government right.

Salmi checked out the boutiques, rang the big bell outside the model railroad store, looked at designer sneaker collection in a shop at the Amtrak entrance and ambled back to the main concourse. He wasn't hungry so instead of wandering down to the food court he decided to spent a few moments browsing over the books at the Tourist Information Center near the main entrance. He glanced at the postcards for a few moments and then picked up Pictures and Photographs of the Early History of Washington, D.C. 1760-2010, and absent-mindedly flipped through the pages until he saw a photo of Union Station taken on dedication day. He flipped the page and saw a photo of the old Pennsylvania railroad train that lost its brakes and crashed through the train station. The caption read: it took over a year to restore Union Station to its former glory after the tragic train crash of 1947. And then, just as he was about ready to put the book down, he flipped a page in the middle and froze because the picture was of Washington D.C.'s McMillan Reservoir-a site located up the steep hill from the Capitol Building-a place filled with several million gallons of water. Enough to inundate the city, he thought. I wonder if Garner knows about this. Could it be Plan B?

Salmi raced out of the foyer and hopped on the Metro, just two stops away from police headquarters at Marion Barry Headquarters. He had forgotten to pay for the book, but he knew he could do that later. This is too important to wait for a sales clerk to get off his ass and ring up a fifteen dollar sale.

Captain Garner had just finished meeting with Homeland.

"Sir, you have to see this." Salmi opened the book to the page showing the reservoir and presented it to the captain.

"We'll go swimming later, Salmi. We've got our hands full right now."

Salmi slammed the book shut and walked out of the Chief's office.

What an ass! What a fucking ass! I'll have to take care of this myself.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Cryptologist Eliot Scanlon, trying to redeem himself after the unfortunate Dato incident, approached We make Dead Bugs our Livelihood!'s address in a different, more logical manner as he went on line searching for its articles of incorporation. "Here it is, 2217 Massachusetts Avenue, NW, incorporated in 2009 by David M. Burns. Business: extermination. Hmm, this is interesting. He has an option to buy that fertilizer plant: We Grow on You." Eliot dialed the hot line of D.C.'s Chief of Police, "Scanlon here. I've got the address of the chairman of the board of the We make Dead Bugs our Livelihood!. They're located at 2217 Massachusetts Avenue. That's right off Sheridan Circle, across the street from the British and Brazilian Embassies. Hey, wasn't that the place where Michael Parker was attacked-isn't the garage there? Oh my God, do you think the two events are related?"

"Damn. That's all I need, a shoot up at the Diplomatic Corral." The chief hung up without thanking Scanlon. That man causes me nothing but grief. I'm going to relieve him as soon as this case is over.

It took three more telephone calls for the chief to mobilize. "I want 2217 Massachusetts Avenue surrounded, but I don't want any violence. This operation has to be as peaceful as a mime at an undertakers' convention: no noise, no violence, no bloodshed, and listen-" the chief wanted to threaten Garner, but changed his mind mid-sentence, "I really need your help on this, John. Those embassy people are a stone's throw away from the President, one misstep and we're all going to hell in a hand basket." The memory of those words always caused the Chief's palms to sweat. For penance as a kid, his priest had handed him a straw basket and commanded him to write all his sins on pieces of paper. Put the whole shebang in the furnace when you're done and watch your sins go to hell in a hand basket, but remember next time, it'll be you in the basket and the devil on the other side waiting with outstretched arms. The Chief wiped his palms on his slick uniform trousers. "I put you in your position because I knew you could do your job. You've never let me down," he wondered how Garner would react. He had, after all, with the Chief's authority, been responsible for the death of the Dato girl and now, officers' sins were piling up in adjoining hand baskets. "I have confidence in you, so do it and do it right." He almost said do it for the Gipper, but he knew better. Garner was the city's only republican who abhorred the Ronald Reagan legacy.

An hour later, for the third time in as many days, Homeland Security, the FBI, and the District police raided a house in the Metro Jabber case, but this time they neither closed down a neighborhood nor put innocent lives in danger. Instead, they surrounded the house, bashed in the door and swept through the Massachusetts Avenue mansion in less than a minute-finding no one home except Terrill Johnson, who was sleeping in his Pinocchio-nosed boxer shorts in front of the fifty-eight inch plasma TV. His ass was on the floor and he was in cuffs before he finished waking up.

"You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand your rights?"

Terrell said he did, as one of the officers found Johnson's pants and Officer Angela Hearne helped him step into them, accidentally whacking his firm hard Pinocchio nose with the back of her hand as she zipped him. Officer Murdock grabbed Terrell's shirt and tossed it over his shoulders. "You're going to come with us quietly and walk like a man. Do you understand?"

Terrill nodded as he stumble-walked down the double flight of stairs to the foyer and into the street where two officers helped him into the backseat of their squad car before whisking him away. Neither the British nor the Brazilian Embassy people across the street knew anything out of the ordinary had happened.

Back at headquarters, Terrell began talking almost immediately; with a yard-long rap sheet of drug deals, pimping, and robberies, he knew the jig was up. He had only been arrested for petty crimes in the past, but this time he knew the FBI, Homeland, and the District police were all coming down hard. I've got to come clean. I'm innocent of everything. All I got to do is make them believe me.

Officer Murdock turned on the tape recorder and read Terrell his Miranda rights a second time as he waived his rights to an attorney. "State your name for the record."

"Terrell Johnson."

"Occupation?"

"Exterminator."

Captain Garner and Assistant Chief of Police, Phyllis Luckett, stood in the next room, observing Johnson's reactions, "I hope he's referring to insects," Garner said as Luckett put her arm on his shoulder.

"You did a good job. We got the bugger. Don't worry, okay?" Luckett said.

"If you cooperate, we will go easy on you. Where's David Burns?"

"I don't know nothing for sure, but he hangs out at Mr. Henry's on the Hill."

"Can you describe him?"

"There's not much to describe He's totally average. Average height, average weight, white guy, thirty-five, forty. If you didn't know him, he could disappear in a crowd."

"Any marks? Tattoos?"

"No."

Garner picked up the phone, "Dispatch three cars to Mr. Henry's-we're looking for a man named David Burns, he's going to be the most usual looking man you've ever seen."

"And he planted bombs, dozens of bombs," Officer Murdock continued, "where are they?"

"I don't know," Terrell lied, trying to distance himself from the consequences of his actions, "but David knows. He knows everything. But there aren't dozens, only three."

"And you placed them all in the Metro, right?"

"Yeah," Terrell got caught. "Yes. I placed one in the metro, but I don't know about the other two."

"Which Metro?"

"Foggy Bottom."

"Comb the Foggy Bottom Metro station, now," Assistant Chief of Police Phyllis Luckett ordered.

"Millions of gays will be out tonight, partying, getting ready for tomorrow's march."

"We can single track the Foggy line," Luckett said, referring to Metro's procedure of closing one track and alternating incoming and outgoing trains on the other side. "We'll glide through the Foggy Bottom Station and the public won't know what the hell's going on. Luckily, most of the demonstrators will be at partying tonight in Dupont Circle. But let's get the Metro Board to act on this now. Oh, and make sure all bomb sniffing dogs teams are deployed; they should start checking the tunnels immediately."

"Now all we have to worry about is Reverend Abel. You know he's planning to baptize half the black population in town tomorrow?"

"He's in Anacostia, on the other end of town. With any luck he won't know anything unusual is going on."

"From what I hear, he seems to spend a lot more time on this side of the river." Garner handed the Chief a dossier. "The Right Reverend has a secret life outside his congregation, a woman by the name of Wanda the Whip." The Chief blushed because he, too, knew Wanda. "We've been investigating Abel for over a year now."

"Good work, Garner." The Chief wiped his palms along his trousers, hoping for a moment alone in the bathroom stall.

"And I'm holding out a few extra men in case he tries something. He may be as dangerous as those maniacs at We make Dead Bugs our Livelihood!."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Acting quickly from their Homeland Security drill a week earlier, Metro closed Foggy Bottom without incident, single-tracking the trains as they went through the station. The regular Metro riders were so used to these inconveniences that they didn't notice and the partial shut-down didn't affect either group of demonstrators. The gay marchers were reveling at the bars around Dupont Circle and in Georgetown, or setting up along the Mall; the Right Reverend Billy B. Abel's flock was celebrating the blessings of the Lord at RFK Stadium on the shores of the Anacostia River, the staging point of their mass baptism the following morning.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Officer Marc Villano hurried down the eastbound track at Foggy, "Bomb, girl, bomb. Sniff. Sniff." Marc wanted to give Lacey her head and let her run up and down the tunnel, but he knew the third rail would be powered up a few hundred feet down the line. If she does what she wants, she'll fry; I've got to do this one by the book.

Meanwhile, Jason Halberson, one of a half dozen Homeland Security "monkeys" assigned to checking the station, wondered where a terrorist could hide anything. The entire system is built like Fort Knox with solid granite benches, trashcans like mini-bomb shelter and floating platforms that don't even touch the walls. There aren't even any public bathrooms, for God's sakes. Why in the hell do the D.C. Cops think we're so fucking worthless? They could release a half dozen cockroaches and get the same results: there's no place to hide a matchbook here, let alone a bomb.

Villano glanced at the Washington Post recycling can-one of the hundreds in the system. Damned Washington Post so concerned about selling extra copies. If they just let readers leave papers on the trains, we could share them and save a million trees a year-but no, they get the right to put Washington Post recycling boxes in each station-what's that all about? Marc lifted the can, wondering why it was so light. He pried open the top, lifted out a dozen crumpled copies of the Washington Post, a Time Magazine, a Hershey's wrapper, three copies of the Washington Times, and several dozen copies of the Express. Looks like a normal waste basket to me.

After removing the papers, he noticed that the entire upper section of the trash can was less than nine inches deep and the rest of the can was large enough to hold a nuclear bomb. Villano tapped his shoulder communicator, "Captain, I think I'm on to something here at Foggy. Get the bomb squad down here ASAP."

Charlie Youngblood, an Olympic Gold Medal winner and pureblooded member of the Shawnee nation, had just entered the station. He had been a participant in the Homeland Security Practice Alert the previous week and knew the procedures backwards and forwards. Within minutes he examined the recycle bin. "Clear the station and hold all trains. I'm going in." Youngblood was always a tad over dramatic.

"Can they announce it as a practice drill? Garner radioed. "I don't want anyone panicking."

"Done," Salmi said as he radioed Metro control.

Twenty minutes later, with the city still unaware of the danger, Youngblood removed the bottom of the recycle bin and discovered the bomb. The loincloth he wore under his uniform, waved in relief. "It's just a smoke bomb," he said, "it looks like nothing more than a diversion. I'm going to deactivate it now."

"Hold on," Garner said, "How dangerous would it be if you left it there? I want Burns to think he's safe; he might check it before we capture him."

"I can render it harmless or leave it as it is. The platform's secure and the station's closed, so the worst that could happen is that we'd see smoke when the bomber activates it-but most terrorists don't come back to the scene; they just move on to Plan B."

"Leave it. Let the terrorist think everything's okay in case he checks back. In the meantime, I'll get Johnson back into the interrogation room. We've got to find out what else Burns has in store. And make sure you sweep both sides of that tunnel-there's still another bomb in there-a bomb big enough to open up the canal."

Like a well-oiled clock, the team worked every inch of both sides of the tunnel and less than twenty-five minutes after Officer Youngblood located the smoke bomb, Lacey discovered the main bomb.

"It's in a small tunnel," Captain Garner said. "Send the bomb squad down there now."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Across town, David Burns was well past Plan B. He had been a history buff for a decade and knew more about the city than most of the historians at the National Archives. He rode the Metro away from Mr. Henry's heading toward Potomac Avenue to check out the last of his secret bombs. Plan C for sea, David laughed aloud, almost no one knows about the seawall between the Anacostia and Potomac Avenue Metro, holding back the entire Anacostia from flooding the Metro, but according to the engineer I spoke to, the Metro designers were too afraid to mess with it. If it ever gives way, water will gush in from the Anacostia, inundating the entire city. Fucking Jesus this is going to be the best day in my life. David picked up his copy of the Washington Express and read about Reverend Abel's up-coming baptismal rally. 'Tomorrow at noon, one-hundred forty-four thousand members of the nationwide Open Door Church will be baptized by their leader, the Right Reverend Billy B. Abel. Damn, I wish I had a video hook-up down there. One hundred and forty-four thousand Christians will be washed into the Metro tunnel from the Anacostia while another ten million fags will be dumped into the Tiber and washed out to sea. I can almost picture it now: Christian and Fags together singing I Wanna Hold Your Hand! Life is good. Life's so fucking good.


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June 9th
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June 7th
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