The Bubble Gum Thief (9 page)

Dagny and Mike unclipped the blue tarp covering the
Danschweida
, placed it into a dry slip bag, and set it on the grass. They lifted the front of the trailer by the hitch, walked it across the lot toward the dock, and backed its wheels against a concrete parking block next to the water and a twenty-foot crane. Dagny rotated the crane until it was above the boat, then pushed a button to lower a thick steel hook and chain. Mike attached the hook to the boat’s hosting bridle, and they lowered the boat into the water. Dagny walked the boat halfway down the wood pier, where she cleated it. Then they returned the empty trailer to its original spot, next to the other boats.

“I didn’t realize it’d be such a chore,” Mike said.

“A lot more to do.”

When they returned, the boat was bobbing in the water, tugging at the rope. Dagny leaped from the pier and landed on the deck, then stepped down into the eight-foot hull. Two molded-plastic benches ran along each side. She sat on the port side. The boom for the mainsail ran across the middle, resting on a crutch and dividing the hull. Dagny smiled over at Mike. He tossed her his backpack and then stared nervously at the boat’s deck while the boat thrashed up and down in the waves.

“It’s like a three-foot jump, for crying out loud,” she teased.

“More like six,” he said, “and it’s bobbing like crazy.”

“Don’t be a baby.”

That worked. He jumped from pier to deck, then stepped to the starboard side of the hull. Dagny spent the next five minutes explaining how they’d lift the mainsail. Mike interrupted her before she could finish. “Why are my feet getting wet?”

Dagny looked down and saw that water was starting to pool at the bottom of the hull. “We forgot to plug the boat,” she laughed.

“
We
?” He shook his head and smiled. “This isn’t exactly inspiring confidence.”

“I didn’t realize you were such a wimp about getting a little wet.”

“I didn’t realize that I was supposed to bring a bucket.” They jumped off the
Danschweida
and walked it back to the crane, then lifted the boat into the air and drained the water from the hull. Dagny plugged the drain, and they lowered the boat back into the water and readied it for sailing once again.

The sails caught wind, and they headed north, around the lighted jetty extending from the airport runway toward the Jefferson Memorial. When the wind died down, Mike reached into his backpack and retrieved a thermos. Hot chocolate. A hundred and thirteen molten calories, Dagny thought. But she needed
every one of them, and it would keep her warm. She leaned back against Mike’s chest as they floated on the Potomac. He put his arm across her and kissed her cheek. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” she asked.

“It’s wonderful.”

Aside from the roar of the occasional airplane, they drifted in a comfortable silence...until Dagny’s phone rang.

Dagny looked at the screen. “Oh God.”

“Who is it?”

“My mother.” She had dodged her mother’s last three calls. It didn’t feel right to dodge a fourth.

“You should take it.”

Before she could decide what to do, Mike grabbed the phone, tapped the screen, and held it to her ear.

“Sorry, Mom. I’ve been tied up.” Dagny pulled away from Mike and slapped his arm with the back of her hand. “How are you doing?”

“I’m worried sick, that’s how. You know I worry when you don’t answer your phone. Is that why you took that job—so that I could worry all the time?”

“Yes, Mom. That’s why I joined the FBI.” Mike smirked and she hit him again. “You know I just sit at a desk all day.” She had told this lie a thousand times.

“Then why do you carry that gun?”

“Because we all have to, Mom. It’s just the rules.”

“I don’t like it one bit.”

Her mother’s calls were always like this. “Why are you calling, Mom?”

“Because I miss my daughter, that’s why. How’s that man you’re dating?”

“Just fine, Mom.”

“Is he treating you well?”

“Very much so.”

“Do you think he could be the one?”

“I don’t even know what that means, Mom.”

“Of course you do. Why do you have to be so difficult?”

“Look, Mom—”

“Dagny, just tell me if you’re falling in love with him.”

“I can’t talk about that right now.”

“Why not? Oh, wait a minute. Is he there right now?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I talked to Herb Roseman the other day. They need help in their litigation department.”

“I’m done with law, Mom, and I’m not moving back to St. Louis.”

“You’d make more money, Dagny. And you wouldn’t have to carry that awful gun.”

“I’m happy doing what I’m doing, Mom.”

“Are you eating?”

“Yes, Mom. I am.”

“I want to get one of those camera things so I can see if you’re eating.”

“You don’t even have a computer.”

“I want to get one. That’s what I’m saying.”

“We’re not getting webcams.”

“Well, we’ll talk about that later. But I—”

“Can I call you back later?”

“You promise you will?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Tell Mike I said hi.”

“I will.”

“No, I mean right now.”

“Mom, I have to go.”

“Call me later.”

“Okay.”

“I love you, Dagny.”

“I love you, too.” Dagny hung up the phone, and then screamed.

Mike wrapped his strong arms around her, pressing her back against his chest, and kissed her neck. “Desk job, huh?”

“She worries enough already.”

“I worry, too.”

It hadn’t occurred to Dagny that Mike would worry about her. “I’m just in class now. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“And when the course is over?”

“Back to work.”

“More gunfights in New York?”

“That’s part of the package.”

“I know,” he said. And then again, more softly, “I know.”

Later that night, as Mike slept beside her, Dagny tossed and turned. She hadn’t given much thought to how her career might interfere with her future relationships when she joined the FBI. Being an agent meant strange hours, a lot of travel, and too much danger. Signing up for the Bureau had been an admittedly selfish choice she’d made as a single woman with no attachments. It wasn’t a great life for a wife, or a mother. Did she even want kids? A couple of months ago, she would have said no. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

At one thirty, she got out of bed and descended the spiral staircase to the second floor. Mike had drawn a curtain across his studio space; he had told her he was working on a surprise. Dagny resisted the temptation to take a peek and continued down the next flight of stairs, through the living area and kitchen to Mike’s rendition of the van Eyck in the entry hall.

She loved looking at the small details in the painting—the figure of a woman carved into the bedpost, the apple sitting on the windowsill, the leaves of the trees through the cracked window...the
wedding ring on the wife’s finger, stuck at the middle joint, too small for her. After a few minutes, she walked upstairs and climbed back in bed. It must have been easier to think about the Arnolfinis than her future, because she drifted off quickly.

She woke at four and tiptoed to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and climbed onto his scale. Three red numerals: 1-1-9. Glancing in the mirror, she saw Mike in the bathroom doorway, wearing his blue boxer shorts and leaning against the doorframe.

“It’s early, Dag.” He rubbed his eyes.

“I’ve got to head down to Quantico.”

Mike walked to his dresser and picked up his keys. “C’mon, D.”

She grabbed the keys from his hand and tossed them onto the bed. “Go back to sleep. I’ll run home.”

“You’re crazy, Dag. That’s twelve miles.”

“It’s barely eight.” She kissed his lips and led him back to bed. “Get some more sleep. You’ve got to teach a class today.”

“Let me drive you,” he offered, as he slid back under the covers. “Let me drive you,” he muttered again, falling back asleep.

They had traded keys a week earlier, and Dagny used hers to lock the door when she left. She took a deep breath of the cold, crisp air. And then she ran.

February 27—Quantico, Virginia

The Professor leaned against the front of his desk. “The FBI defines terror as the unlawful use of force or violence against persons or property to intimidate or coerce a government, the civilian population, or any segment thereof, in furtherance of political or social objectives. So was the BTK killer a terrorist? Agent Davis?”

“Arguably, he had a social objective—namely, for society to fear him. It’s why he sent letters to the police and to the papers,” Brent said.

“If self-aggrandizement is a social objective,” Dagny interjected, “then I’m afraid an awful lot of crimes are going to fall within our definition of terrorism. It’s not unusual for serial killers to seek recognition. The Zodiac killer sent numerous letters to the media. Jack the Ripper sent a letter to authorities bragging about his crimes. I think that we should expect a criminal to have an objective beyond his own gratification before we call him a terrorist.”

The Professor smiled. “So Agent Gray, you’re willing to let the definition depend upon the way madmen define their cause?”

“Aren’t all crimes judged by the mind-set of the criminal, Professor? Doesn’t the commission of a crime itself require a mens rea?”

“Ah, the lawyer has made her appearance.” This got a hearty laugh from Brent and a chuckle from Walton. No one else was paying attention.

“You’re right, though,” the Professor continued. “We do define crimes by the mind-set of the criminal—
at trial
. But when you’re in the field, you’re not worried about reasonable doubt, are you? Your job is to prevent crimes. Aren’t niceties like state of mind better left to juries?”

“Sure, Professor, but aren’t we just playing a definitional game? Regardless of whether a criminal meets our definition of a terrorist, we want to catch him. His motive is irrelevant.”

“Right,
in part
,” the Professor barked. “We want to catch him, regardless of his motive. But obviously, his motive is not irrelevant to us. And why is that, Agent Gray? Why do we care about his motive?”

The Socratic game reminded Dagny of law school. “Motive only matters if it can help us catch him. If we know his motive, we can anticipate his next move.”

The Professor grabbed a marker and began writing on the dry-erase board, saying the words as he wrote them. “The WHAT. The WHO. The WHERE. The WHY.” He threw the marker to the ground and smacked the word WHAT with his hand. “You show up at a crime scene and do your work, and you’ve got the WHAT. A dead body. Missing money. Whatever. From that point on, everything is about the WHO and the WHERE,” he said, hitting the words with his hand again for emphasis. “If you figure out who did it and where he is, then your case is closed. The WHY only matters if it helps you get the WHO or WHERE. And that’s the only reason that motive matters. Agent Davis made a decent case for the BTK killer being a terrorist. But the question is
irrelevant. You might not even know if an act is intended to create terror until you’re well into the investigation. So why are we even talking about this? Agent Walton?”

“Ummm...”

“No ummms!”

“Because you want us to remember that crime is crime—and that the FBI may be making a mistake by segregating counterterrorism from other investigative units. Because we need to approach each crime without preconceived notions.”

“More or less, Mr. Walton. In any event, I’m hungry, so let’s break for lunch.”

The Professor gathered his books and hobbled to the door. “Agent Gray, if you would care to join me, I’d like to discuss a matter.”

He’d never before extended such an invitation to anyone in the class. “Of course, Professor.” Dagny returned the puzzled looks of her classmates with a shrug and followed the Professor down the hallway. He moved slowly, and Dagny found it difficult to match her pace to his.

They took the stairs to an even lower level, wandering under dim, flickering lights, past clanking pipes and boilers, to a thick metal door with a yellow Post-it note affixed to it. It read “McDougal.”

“My office,” he sneered, pushing the door open.

“This feels like a Terry Gilliam movie,” Dagny said.

“I don’t know who that is.”

Inside, the concrete walls of the ten-by-ten cell were bare. The Professor’s metal desk was covered by stacks of books, as was much of the floor. The shelves behind the desk were filled with brown Redwelds, overflowing with file folders and papers. Two framed photographs stood on the top shelf. Dagny guessed that the woman standing against the rail of a ship in the picture on the left was Mrs. McDougal. The picture on the right showed J. Edgar
Hoover presenting a medal to a young, strong, tall agent. Was it the Professor? Dagny didn’t believe it was possible. Sure, people shrink, but that much?

“Have a seat,” McDougal said.

Dagny removed a stack of books from the chair opposite the desk and sat down. The Professor opened a small refrigerator next to the bookshelf and withdrew two brown paper sacks. He tossed one to Dagny.