Flash Point (23 page)

Jenna laughed, hard and loud. She couldn't believe it. A break.

‘Send it to your mom, Irv,' she said.

He laughed, and the phone clicked.

Jenna turned to the others. ‘What are you all sitting around for? We're about to go meet the page-master.'

The SUV bounced as the front tires rolled into the driveway of 1482 Sycamore Bend in Bethesda, Maryland.

‘Oho!' Dodd said, a big, surprised grin widening, ‘Look, Mr Lewis must be expecting us!'

Jenna nodded. She'd seen it, too. The flash of a curtain on the lower left, a man in dark rimmed, square glasses peeking out, wary.

Dodd threw the SUV into park, and the three agents opened their doors at once. Jenna glanced back briefly at Grey. ‘Grey, stay put. As soon as we clear the area as safe, we'll come get you.'

She slammed the door and jogged toward the porch, catching up to the other two, who already had their guns drawn. They'd made enough calls on persons of interest to know that a peek out the curtain could mean a perp had spotted the cops and was now making a run for it or was loading his own Glock for a showdown.

Innocent light pink flashed in, and the info Irv had sent them on Flint Lewis, creator of the group and website Irv had found with a motto based on a quote from
A Tale of Two Cities
– Black Shadow. Age thirty-one, married to Ruthie Lewis for four years. One baby daughter named Nell – thirteen months – and another on the way.

‘Remember,' Jenna said, bracing for the door to open. ‘Pregnant wife and one child. Careful.'

Dodd banged hard on the castle-like front door and was just opening his mouth to bark his deep, ‘FBI, open up!' when the massive, dark blue door flew open, Flint Lewis standing in the hallway.

‘Won't you come in?'

The tall, slender man stood aside, allowing Jenna to step through the door first. She flashed her badge, launched into her spiel. ‘Mr Lewis, I'm Dr Jenna Ramey, and this is Special Agent Gabriel Dodd and SA Porter Jameson.' She cocked her head toward where the helicopter that had been clipping overhead was now setting down in a large, open front yard two houses down. ‘That's Special Agent in Charge Saleda Ovarez. We're from the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Uni—'

‘I know who you are,' Flint said, taking off his glasses and rubbing the lenses with a white handkerchief from his pocket.

‘Oh?' she said.

‘Of course. Been expecting you. I even cleared my schedule,' he replied, replacing his glasses on his face. ‘Come, come. Let's sit.'

He led them through the foyer and into the living room, gestured to the two-piece sectional couch covered in deep, chocolate leather forming an ‘L' shape along two adjacent walls across from a fifty-inch flat screen. As Jenna passed Flint Lewis to accept the seat, her eyes fell to the hardwood floors. No scratches, dings, or stray dust bunnies to be seen. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the fireplace on the far wall – the only things atop its gray-stone base an iron hearth tool set and a decorative wicker basket of kindling.

This didn't seem like a growing family's living room. No bumper pads on the hearth, baby gates in doorways to other rooms. No diapers, wipes, or toys … anywhere.

Hot pink flashed in. Order because of a need to control. Maybe OCD tendencies. The types of people who thought children should be seen and not heard.

From Irv's information, Jenna knew Flint was a freelance computer programmer and web designer with a background in marketing and public relations. They didn't have a lot on his early life. Home-schooled, dropped out of college when he figured out he could teach his technology professors' courses better than they could. Worked a few jobs here and there for tech companies and start-ups but settled down in the suburbs and moved his career home, too.

So where's the fam?

‘Would anyone like a glass of ice water? Pellegrino?'

‘No, thank you,' Jenna answered.

‘Right then,' Flint said, and he took a seat in the beige suede armchair. ‘Like I said, I expected you. I hate to say it. I wish I didn't have to. But as soon as I saw the bank on the news, I knew Black Shadow was involved. Knew you'd want to talk to me.'

Saleda, who had let herself in behind them and sat down, leaned in toward Flint. ‘Let me make sure I understand this correctly, Mr Lewis. Are you saying that when you saw that there was a massacre at a Washington, DC, bank on the news here in Bethesda, Maryland, you immediately believed the group
you
started was behind it?'

Flint crossed his legs, shook his head. ‘Not exactly, no. The Black Shadow
I
created – a place where people who were angry about problems in the government that no one would do anything about could come and vent their frustrations in a supportive, open-minded environment – ceased to exist two years ago.'

The apricot of consistency flashed in. Jenna nodded. The original Black Shadow site hadn't had much if any activity in over 24 months. ‘What exactly happened to it, Mr Lewis?'

‘Please, call me Flint,' he said. He clasped his hands in his lap, his knuckles whitening a bit. ‘As treacherous as the name sounds, the Black Shadow forum was something more of a support group for myself, in lot of ways.'

Flint hung his head, blinking back full eyes.

‘What kind of support did you find in an anti-government website?' Saleda asked bluntly.

Flint looked at her, folded his lips in, an expression that said that while he was disappointed she didn't understand, that he'd gotten the question many times before. ‘Let me clarify one thing, Special Agent. I am not and was never anti-government. Anarchy would cause as many tragedies as the current problematic system does, if not more.'

A distinct shade of purple flashed in.
In the age of foolishness, we are the age of wisdom.

The take on one of the most famous phrases on page one of
A Tale of Two Cities
– and how Irv had nailed down this as the group – had been Black Shadow's motto as stated on the website, and it underlined what Jenna had suspected all along: this group of people was very intelligent – many to the point of narcissism – and they were convinced the average mind wasn't fit to cast a vote, much less hold government office and make decisions.

‘So what is it exactly that you believe about the government that led you to start Black Shadow?' Jenna asked, though she knew the answer – in part, anyway.

Flint uncrossed his legs and stood, strolled toward the tall windows behind the armchair. ‘Growing up, I spent more time in hospital cancer wards than on playgrounds,' he said, turning back to face them as he reached the window. Upon seeing the surprised looks, he waved his hand. ‘Oh, not me. It was my little sister. She was diagnosed with leukemia. They started chemo right away, but she went downhill fast. A bone marrow transplant was her only chance. Well, I happened to be a perfect match. Unfortunately, the transplant only put her into remission for a year. She got sick again. First, she was anemic and needed blood. Next, her kidneys started to fail, so of course, I was more than willing to give her one. She was my best friend. When she went into liver failure, my parents scheduled the surgery for me to give her half of mine. But a doctor at the hospital had started to worry my parents weren't making decisions that considered
my
well-being as much as my sister's. This doctor notified the court systems, and she was appointed my temporary legal guardian in charge of making medical decisions for me. The first time the government overstepped in my life was the moment I realized that because of them, I'd lose my sister.'

‘You were only a kid,' Dodd cut in.

Flint faced him, crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Yep. I was. But that's part of the problem. So was she. She went through
so
many awful treatments. She wasn't even a teenager yet when she'd had enough torture that, had she been able to choose for herself, she would've opted to die. While she still had some dignity, still felt human. But people don't believe kids can possibly be as intelligent as adults, so kids can't elect to stop treatment and end the pain … or decide to donate organs to give their sister a chance at a
real
life. No, the
intelligent
adults knew it was best to continue putting her through hell. More medications, more surgeries, all designed just to keep her alive a little bit longer. Here these simple-minded fools couldn't fathom that “saving” her might mean something other than preserving her ability to breathe. And yet, despite that, they were too deficient to grasp such a concept. They were allowed to make her medical decisions. They were allowed to vote! The government gave them those rights.'

He took a deep breath, blew it out. ‘After that, I saw more and more examples of the government's stupidity. How the stupid did the governing. I came to believe that intellect ought to be valued in government over age or religion or any other meaningless attribution of ability put above it in the current political spectrum. If a teen had an IQ high enough to make his own medical decisions, why should his will not trump that of a person who had the lowest grades of their medical school class?'

The bright red of righteous anger flashed in first, then again, that distinct shade of purple Jenna was all too familiar with: narcissism.

Intense stuff, and not without
some
merit.

But Flint's emotions added to his inflated view of his intellect led to some skewed logic. His feelings of entitlement because he was better than others screamed of at least
one
personality trait of the dark triad. Maybe even two, since he was somewhat focused on his own self-interests. But those self-interests were motivated by something deeper – his sister's suffering, which suggested he didn't lack empathy, and his story hadn't triggered any alarms – or colors – to suggest it wasn't genuine.

So far.

‘I'm so sorry about your sister,' Saleda said, steering the conversation away from a rant and gently reminding Flint who was present in the room.

He hung his head. ‘I'm sorry. It's just always a tough subject.'

‘We understand,' Jenna said. ‘Everyone copes with grief in different ways, and it's healthy to acknowledge positive
and
negative feelings.' It was also normal for people to find different ways of expressing those feelings. Some were healthy; some, not so much. ‘I'm starting to gather that the website wasn't just a public airing of grievances but more reaching out to others who had similar pain.'

Flint nodded, Jenna's words seeming to calm him, as understanding had a tendency to do in most people. ‘Of course, some people who found the site were conspiracy theorists or just general nutjobs, but I tried to moderate it well. I blocked those types from the private forums quickly. The actual group, well … everyone had their own reasons for being there.'

‘Similar to yours?'

‘Some,' Flint said, pacing again. ‘Lots of lost loved ones. Painful situations and life-changing scars that in some way were the result of a government run by people not qualified to run it. In many ways, we were like an odd little family. We didn't know everything about each others' lives, but I think we were as close as you can get through a computer screen, if you can believe it.'

‘Tell us about when the group started to fracture,' Jenna said.

‘Well, as you can imagine, a group like this has a lot of people with very strong opinions,' Flint said.

‘And a lot of wackos,' Porter muttered.

Flint ignored him. ‘A couple of the more bitter members didn't find the same comfort in just talking and commiserating as the rest of us did. They sounded more and more radical, wanted to take more action. At some point, I was approached about an in-person meeting that had been set up.'

‘None of you had met in person?' Saleda asked.

‘No,' Flint said. ‘We enjoyed each others' company and support, but by nature of what our group talked about, we were also, to some degree, afraid. Didn't give our identities on the forum at all—'

‘Which is how the literary handles started?' Jenna cut in, curious.

‘Kind of,' Flint said slowly. ‘The handful of us there from the beginning came up with the motto, so choosing a literary character for a forum identity sort of became a trend, if you will. A couple of people did it, then everyone wanted one.'

‘So, everyone named themselves, then?' Jenna asked.

‘Technically, yes.'

‘Why technically?'

Flint paused, seemed to consider. ‘Several people talked amongst themselves as they tried to decide what names fit them. The characters were' – he pursed his lips, thinking – ‘
personal.
Everyone really got into their characters. It wasn't a trivial thing to anyone.'

That made sense, given all they'd seen so far.

‘But even if people crowd-sourced ideas, they still chose their own, correct?'

‘Technically.'

A salmon color flashed in. One she recognized easily, as it had bitten her in the rear in the past if ever she didn't readily recognize it – someone holding back. ‘What am I missing?'

‘One of the two I mentioned that were setting up the meetings kind of became the go-to forum authority on handle characters. He was one of the people first to pick a character after I did, but he was
definitely
the first to announce his choice in a post containing a long, in-depth analysis of the literary aspects that led him to it. Others followed suit. As the forum admin at the time, I could see when members sent
private messages to one another. When character names became the ‘in' thing, I noticed a lot of people were messaging back and forth with Ishmael. Though I didn't read their messages, of course, I assumed they wanted his assessment of them.'

‘Ishmael?' Jenna repeated.

Flint nodded. ‘I don't know a lot about his situation, really, just that he was brilliant, intense, and very resentful. He was severely disabled, though he never went into specifics of his condition. We all got the feeling he was homebound. Or that maybe he was agoraphobic.'