David had been making bombs since he was a teen at D.C. Tech, a skill he and Corrie Weinstein had picked up in chem lab. He glanced at the recipe and then added a little bit extra. Everything's right on schedule. I should start hiring an architect to build my new house on the Mall. I can't believe Herb Jenkins thought I was going to buy him out-what luck that he got hit by an ambulance. Everything's right on track and I didn't have to do anything to make it happen. This city's a creel of red herrings waiting to be devoured.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Alejandro scurried through the aisles of the Whole Food Grocery Store in Dupont Circle, shopping for the party he and Carlos would throw after the march. Bananas, carrots, hot peppers, celery, cucumbers, just kidding, stop it, get your mind out of the gutter. A simple cookout'll work. How about hot dogs? Stop! Sausages?

Alejandro giggled to himself as he threw thirty pounds of ground beef into his shopping cart. I'd better get some veggie patties . . . and some fish.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Reverend Abel dialed his dad's home in Elmira, New York, at 6:49 A.M., planning to talk for ten minutes or so. He liked to take advantage of the low morning rates and since his dad was an early riser, he'd have the rest of the day to take care of business. "Dad, I had a vision-Jesus is sending me to Africa to save the Hottentots."

Robert Abel, listened patiently as his son explained his visions. He hoped his boy's mental health would improve when he found Jesus, but now he wondered if he'd taken his meds, even though he knew better than to ask. I'll just let him rant; it's the only way, Robert thought. When he's done, he'll figure out who he is and where he's going-I just hope I live long enough to see it.

Nine minutes later, in a deep sweat, Reverend Abel calmed down and began to listen. "Oh, how are you doing? Did the deal go through?"

"Yes," Robert responded. "I closed last night. The Starbucks franchise is mine-mine and Elmira First Savings and Loan, that is." Robert chuckled, but his son didn't get the joke.

"Jesus be praised," the Right Reverend Abel shouted into the phone so loudly that Robert had to pull his ear away. "I prayed you'd get that franchise while drinking a double chocolate latte last night at Eastern Market Starbucks and the Lord came unto me and showed me you would be successful."

Robert didn't want to laugh; he wanted to spill his guts in riotous abandon-it was the only way he knew how to cope with his son's nocturnal visions, but he held his emotions. I'm the only rock in the boy's life. If I fail, God knows what'll happen.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tom Kelly, the thirty-year-old barrel-chested security guard at We Grow on You Fertilizer Company, found the small notebook by the pile of fill dirt and flipped through its tattered pages. Drawings of the Monument, the White House, scribbling, phone numbers, addresses. This must be one of the contractor's books. I'd better find out who it belongs to.

Kelly dropped the notebook on his desk just as his supervisor, Jacob Baker, an underweight Lithuanian Jew who smoked Honduran cigars twenty-four seven, stumbled into the office with two cups of regular coffee, one without cream, one without sugar. "Hey, Tom, I thought you'd still be here. I brought you a coffee." Baker, who was the office schlemiel, dropped the coffee cup on the edge of the desk and stood by helplessly as it wobbled three times before it spilled all over Tom.

As Tom Kelly jumped up, he knocked the notebook on the floor at Baker's feet. "Be careful, boychik, you don't want to boil the family jewels." Baker laughed but both he and Tom knew it wasn't malicious. While Tom went to the bathroom to mop himself off, Baker, who was a history buff and a seventh generation Washingtonian, flipped through the notebook, There's something familiar about this. Baker Googled the phase: Goose Creek, White House, 1800. Within seconds he saw it: a painting of Goose Creek licking in the backyard of the White House That's where John Adams went skinny dipping. Thank God I never had to see a naked President.

He continued Googling and found a drawing of Goose Creek flushing gates.

As Tom re-entered the office, Jacob said, "Look at this. This is a drawing of Washington back in the 1800s. And that," Jacob paused and pointed with his arthritic left pinky, wanting to make it useful for something, "is the old Tiber Canal."

"Tiber Canal?"

"Yep, the city's built on a swamp. Back in the 1790's when Good Old George talked Congress into building the new Federal city here, all this area," Jacob ran his pinky across the area now known as the Mall, "was a swamp." Jacob jabbed his finger gently onto an image, "There it is: Goose Creek. It ran right smack dab through the middle of today's Mall. It got to be such a problem with raw sewage, flooding, and silting that the Feds turned it into a canal: the Tiber Canal. Baker inched his boney ass forward and squinted at the computer as he punched the words Goose Creek into his Google search engine and opened to this:

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"There it is: Goose Creek, also known as Tiber Creek."

"Look how big that sucker was."

"And the Mall's sitting right on top of it."

"How did you learn all this?"

"I grew up on Capitol Hill and ate this stuff up when I was a kid. My dad told me when they built the Metro they were afraid the entire system was going to be sucked into the swamp and for years I was afraid to go down there. Whatcha think? Wouldn't that be awesome? If the city flooded, it could wash this whole God damned mess out to sea." Baker laughed and, for a moment, Tom thought he was serious.

"So the Mall used to be a waterway?"

"Exactly. Back then there were no roads to speak of, we built canals to link one city to another. The Chesapeake and Ohio Canal right here in Washington, is a good example. It was financed by none other than George Washington. The canal became a virtual highway from Washington D.C. to the West.

"The kids and I hiked along that canal, when we rode in the mule-drawn barge, Jodi thought we'd gone back in time. How'd she put it? 'Daddy, is this what life was like in the olden days when you were my age?' We laughed about that for days."

Jacob had been half listening, tracing the route of the Tiber with his finger. "This creek goes from the Potomac to the White House, past the National Gallery all the way through the city up to Union Station, down to the Botanic Gardens, branching off to the south, down to the Anacostia River: it's like a snake, ripping the city in two.

Tom thought about the time he and his wife had walked from the Capitol down the hill to the Botanic Gardens, wondering how orchids and cacti could grow so well in such a heartless city, yet that was where he'd proposed to her, gently removing a cactus thorn from her thumb as he knelt underneath the Bougainvilleas in the central atrium.

"Let me superimpose a modern street map on the Tiber Canal," Jacob said, "Papa was right. This city is built on a gigantic swamp."

"That could be dangerous. Couldn't it collapse . . . or back up like a sewer?"

"It's backed up a lot of times but I'm sure the Metro construction engineers solved the other problems-I mean can you picture what would happen if the Metro really did get sucked into the swamp or the Tiber overflowed? That would be a major disaster."

"I understand, but what's this notebook all about and who's keeping such detailed notes on something as archaic as the Tiber?"

"Could be a scientist or an engineer. Look, here's a flood chart. Dates, numbers of people killed, height of water. It's almost like a Doomsday Book."

"A what?"

Why don't these modern day teachers teach history anymore? Don't they know anything besides computers? "The Doomsday Book was commissioned by William the Conqueror-it was a sort of census-a way for the king to know what he owned so he could tax the hell out of everything and everybody. But this notebook is more comprehensive; it's like a battle plan to conquer the city." Jacob cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair a moment. "I guess I'm reading too much into this. "

Suddenly, Jacob dropped his chair to the floor, leaned forward and pounded on his computer, "Hold on! I think I'm on to something." Jacob ran another Google search, "Look at this: here's a picture of the 1943 flood that covered the entire Mall and inundated the Jefferson Memorial all the way up to the top step. Good God, I thought we were safe. I sure hope this notebook doesn't belong to a terrorist." Jacob laughed his rich warm laugh.


(Washington, D.C. in the great flood of 1889)



(October 17, 1942, the flood along the Tidal Basin and Memorials)

"Nah, it looks more like notes for a doctoral dissertation. I bet the author's a Ph.D. candidate. I had a friend who wrote his entire dissertation in long hand without a back-up. It was filled with a ton of statistics. He was so glad to finish that he took his wife out to dinner to celebrate, but he left his dissertation in his briefcase in the backseat-"

"Don't say it."

"Yep, while they were eating, a thief broke into their car, grabbed his briefcase and my friend had to start his dissertation all over again."

"Damn, we have to find out who belongs to this notebook." Tom looked at his watch. "But not tonight, I wouldn't know where to begin."

"I agree," Tom yawned, "besides, it'll take a while for the author to remember where he left it. Once he does, I'm sure he'll call us. In the meantime, I'll hold on to it."

"That's fine with me," Jacob stood and stretched, grabbed his umbrella, and headed out the door.

"What's that for? There's not a cloud in the sky."

"Better safe than sorry," Jacob said, "Semper Paratus."

"What?"

"High school Latin, my boy: Always be prepared."

Tom's wife had taken the car for the day to run the girls to ballet, which was just one more expense Tom couldn't afford, but which he endured for the family. As he walked to the bus stop the skies opened and he struggled to put on the plastic wrap-around rain sheath that his daughter laughingly called 'the bullet proof glass coat.' Safely inside the shelter, he flipped through the notebook, looking for more discoveries, trying not to think about his daughter's lost ballet slipper and how much it would cost to buy her a new pair, or how many cans of Tuna Helper and Noodle Raman he'd stored in the pantry, and wondering if anyone beside his wife would ever see the gaping holes in his boxer briefs, when he glanced at one of the doodles. It contained the numbers 577-1213 written in a counterclockwise rotation. It could be a D.C. number or it could just lead to a wild goose chase. What the heck, I might be saving somebody a night's sleep . . . or an educational degree. Tom picked up his cell and dialed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Rhonda Wilkerson's sweet sticky sweat covered her sheets; she felt cold and clammy, but she woke up suddenly, erect in her hospital bed, trying to shake off the effects of the drugs. I'm in the hospital. I remember that . . . but there's nothing wrong with me. I was a little bit emotional but I get that way sometimes . . . but why am I here? What's happening?

Rhonda tried to get out of bed, but wobbled from her meds. She held on to the metal sidebar, drag-crawling her way around the room leaning against the nightstand, struggling to hold onto the handicapped grab bars, working her way toward the closet. If I can just get to my clothes I can get out of here. I'll walk down the hall, find a pay phone, call Kiefer and be home in less than an hour.

Rhonda froze. She heard footsteps coming down the hall.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Don't make a sound. That nut's spending the night next to Hinckley's room and I'm making book she stays here 'til hell freezes over." Steven Mudrick, a sixty-nine year old lab assistant who had missed his chance to retire long before the Bush administration closed down Federal buy-outs, handed his friend a twenty. "I'll take a piece of the action. Put this on the dame. Hinckley had a mission, but the bitch in room 403 makes him look sane."

Rhonda braced herself against the closet door, slowly trying to push it open.

It was empty.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

David Burns was whistling 'Row, Row, Row Your Boat,' dreaming of the day the Mall would sink below sea level as he placed the last of the bombs in his briefcase. When the phone rang, his mind was a million miles away from the notebook he had left at the We Grow on You Fertilizer Company in Riverdale, Maryland.

"Is this 577-1213?"

"Yep."

"Well, you don't know me, but I found a notebook with your number in it," Tom stumbled for words, "I was wondering if you were working on your dissertation or something. It looks like the entire book is a research project."

David's ears pricked up. "Where are you? Do you have the notebook with you? Awesome, I need that information tonight if possible."

"I sort of figured you would." Tom breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't want to appear stupid to a stranger but he was glad he'd done the right thing. "You're working on your doctorate, aren't you?"

"That's right." David didn't sound too convincing. "Where did you say you were? Can I come right over?"

"I just missed my bus, but there's another one coming in about an hour. I can bring the notebook to work tomorrow if that's okay."

"I really need it this evening. I have an important-" David doodled, hoping to find the right words, "presentation to make. If I don't have that information, my career could be ruined."

"I see." Tom was getting frustrated now. He was glad he'd called, but he didn't want to wait up half the night taking care of someone else's business. "Tomorrow morning would be much better. It's hot and sticky and I've got about an hour to wait before the stupid bus arrives." Tom didn't want to think about the twenty minute walk facing him when the bus dropped him off at Lanham-Severn Road. "To be honest, I'm ready to hit the hay."

"How about I meet you at the bus stop and drive you home?"

"That would be great, but I don't want to put you out."

"Where are you?"

"I'm at the corner of Riggs and Ager. Do you know it?"

David had no idea where it was, but he knew he could find it on his GPS. "Sure. What do you look like? I see, five foot ten, about a hundred seventy. There might be a thousand guys with your description. What are you wearing?"

"Tennis shoes, jeans and a funky T-shirt my wife got at a play she saw last week. It says !Corked and it has a cartoon of a crocodile on it."

He'll be an easy mark! David released a long deep breath. "Give me ten minutes, but stay glued to your phone in case I get turned around."

"No problem, and thanks in advance for picking me up." If he gets here soon, I'll be able to play with Jenny and Jodi before they go to bed.

David dashed outside, spotted Jazz, called him over, and sped out the alley. David knew it would take at least twenty minutes to get to Hyattsville, but he'd already programmed Tom's number, knowing he could string him along half the night if he had to.

Twenty-seven minutes and two phone calls later, David Burns pulled up to the deserted stretch of highway. "Hey, Tom, I'd recognize you a mile away. Hop in; I'll drive you right home."

Tom didn't think for a moment before getting into the stranger's car. That was his first mistake. "Hey, I'm grateful for the ride. It's worse walking home in the summer than winter, at least you can get warm in winter, but nothing ever cools you down in the summer-especially after a torrent like we just had-I'm a bucket of humidity waiting to jump into the shower to cool down." Tom laughed.

David thought, You're gonna be cold soon enough, my man, stone cold.

"You know I practically memorized your notebook. I didn't realize anyone besides me knew about the Tiber Canal. Are you getting an engineering degree?"

David stared at Tom blankly. "No," David paused, "history's my field, American History."

"Ah, that explains all the drawings. You know, I searched everything on the net and couldn't believe what I found."

"Really?"

"Yep, Washington's built on a swamp. I hope Homeland knows how easily this entire city could slip into the sea."

"Hoping the swamp monsters don't get you?" David said with a serious face.

Tom laughed, "That's a good one. Turn here-we're only a few miles from my house. This is Powder Mill Road. There aren't any street lights so drive carefully-and slow down." Admitting that the road was dark was Tom's second mistake.

"Will do. So, you read everything. Sounds like we have a lot in common. Did you tell anyone else about your great discovery?"

Tom hesitated, wondering why David asked such a strange question, "Nah, I've been alone all day. Why?"

"Just a topic of conversation." David pulled the car over to the side of the road. "I gotta take a leak. I bet there's almost no traffic at this hour."

"It's totally non-existent," Tom said, as he got out of the car. That was his third mistake. "And speaking of pissing," Tom turned his back on David and unzipped. That was his final mistake.

David pretended to unzip as he pulled out his Magnum and fired three shots into Tom's head just as he started to urinate. David removed the silencer and shoved the gun back into his jacket, pleased that the sound of the body hitting the ground was louder than the gunshot.

"Why'd you do that?" Jason asked

"Better safe than sorry."

"And murder's safer than knowing about the canal?"

"In this case, yes." David kicked Tom's body into the woods and watched it roll into a ravine. "With a little luck that thing won't be discovered for weeks."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Damn! As long as gay marriage remains illegal, Michael won't be covered by my health insurance. How are we gonna pay for this? I'll have to work until I'm eighty! Lieutenant Danh Nguyen hurried to his part-time job at L'Enfant Plaza, but as he reached the corner of Twelfth and Constitution, he noticed a We make Dead Bugs our Livelihood! van pull up suddenly, a man jumping inside and then wheeling off into the darkness. Danh wondered why he had thought the logo was funny when he first saw it. Now it only brought back memories of the games he and Michael played the night they last made love. Lost in thought, Danh ran the next traffic light, narrowly avoiding a Yellow Cab as it sped down Seventh Street. Danh slowed down. I have to keep my mind on the road. There are just too many things to worry about, too many God damned things.

Terrell, who had just hopped into We Make Dead Bugs our Livelihood! van, sat back in his seat as Adman sped down Constitution Avenue. The van turned sharply onto Eleventh and headed north toward David's house at 2217 Massachusetts Avenue. "One bomb down and two to go." Terrell said. "This is going to be an explosive night."


On to Chapter Nine
June 6th
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June 4th
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