“A small group of guys offered me support after I was beat up during my junior year. They lived in Lake Ridge and would invite me to their houses on the weekend. We would play video games, surf the internet, do stuff like that. One guy was getting really serious about Islam, and was always talking about sharia law and how great it was. He called the US military ‘crusaders,’ and talked about how it was time for Muslims to fight back. Although he never used the term ISIS or Islamic State, I suspected that he was making contact online.”
“What did the other guys think about this?”
“They were not as serious. We were just high school guys, hanging out together and acting tough. Occasionally, some older guys would join the group. Guys in their twenties who would arrive on motorcycles and bring us beer. They talked about their respect for ISIS, and that made me nervous.”
“What would they say?”
“They would talk about ISIS fighters as being studs, battling the oppressors and going to heaven as servants of God. They said it was time for Muslims to take action in America. There were six of them, and they lived nearby in Woodbridge. One of them said after a night of drinking that he wanted to make Woodbridge the city of jihad.”
“And what were their plans?”
“They didn’t say much at first. I thought they were just acting tough. But at the same time, I was having a hard time at the American Legion, and ended up getting fired. I was angry at the way I was treated there, especially by the vets. I was sick of being looked down on. One of the guys from Woodbridge took me aside and said that they were going to send a signal to the crusaders. He told me that they accepted me and respected me, and that they wanted me to play a part. He said that I could earn hasanat.”
“Credit for good deeds.”
“Exactly. They knew that I was a good photographer, so they asked me to use my boat to get close to Fort Belvoir and take some pictures. They were planning to blow something up as a sign of their strength.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said that I didn’t want to be involved in anything that would kill. The Qur’an does not support the taking of innocent lives. He assured me that their target would not be occupied by people. It would send a message, but not kill.”
“So that’s why you were spending so much time on the water.”
“Yes, I took a lot of pictures, all along the shoreline. I especially focused on the old landing craft that were docked there. I thought that the destruction of one of them would send the right message.”
“Did you give the pictures to these guys from Woodbridge?”
“The first set, yes. That was last year, after I graduated from high school. My boat was out of the water all winter, but when I launched it this spring, I started to have second thoughts. I was about to back out of the plan when Norah was murdered. Her death and the arrest of my father made me furious, and I threw myself back into the photography. I wanted to punish the people that had killed my sister and jailed my father.” Omar turned to look Harley in the eyes.
“But then everything changed. I heard one of the Woodbridge guys saying that Belvoir had a stockpile of biological weapons, and that this would be their target. He said that they were going to get revenge for God. I said no way—releasing biological weapons would be genocide. The guy said martyrdom was an automatic path to heaven. I went home immediately, swearing that I would never meet with those guys again.”
“But what happened?” asked Harley. “Why were you on the river again on Sunday?”
“They put me in an impossible spot. You know the attack on our bakery stand, right here in the farmers’ market? That was the Woodbridge guys. They told me that they were sending me a message, and that they would do even more damage if I backed out of the plan. They threatened to kill my mother and Sarah. So, I continued to take pictures, up until Sunday afternoon.”
“Have you given any photographs to the Woodbridge guys?”
“Not since the first set. Nothing related to the stockpile. They are all still in the camera.”
“Good,” said Harley. “You’ve done nothing that cannot be undone.”
Omar appeared relieved. “How can I get out of this, and keep my family safe? I don’t want us all to die.”
“Neither do I,” said Harley. “Are you willing to talk to the police?”
Omar thought for a moment. “Not the ones who arrested my father. I don’t trust them . . . and remember, this is all between me and God.”
CHAPTER 14
“City of jihad.” Harley let the phrase roll around in his mind as he prepped his boat for a trip to Nationals Park in Washington. On the one hand, the word jihad meant “striving,” so it could include a struggle for peace and justice and enlightenment. He knew that many people used the word to describe their efforts to be good Muslims or to share the message of Islam with others. But the Woodbridge guys proclaimed a holy war—not peace. Are they working on explosives or stockpiling weapons? Finding another powerboat to use in their attack on the cache of biological weapons? Harley’s mind spun as fast as the propeller on his boat engine.
He was cleaning up his boat for an afternoon trip to watch a ball game that started at four o’clock. It was a church activity, one that he had announced from the pulpit and opened up to anyone in the congregation. Dirk Carter had signed up, as had Tim Underwood, who was now a regular attender at the church. Mary Ranger, the postmistress of the Occoquan Post Office, was enjoying a day of vacation and joined the activity with her husband, Paul. They brought their three elementary-school-aged granddaughters, who were staying with them for part of their summer vacation. At the last minute, Harley had one cancellation, so he offered the ticket to Leah, who left the clinic early so that she could join the group.
At two, the passengers started arriving, and Harley welcomed them and helped them to climb onto the boat. He put children’s life jackets on the three little girls and ushered them to the bow along with their grandfather, Paul. Taking seats in the main part of the cabin were Dirk, Tim, Mary, Leah and Harley, and Mary promised Paul that she would switch places with him as they made their way up the river.
With Dirk acting as first mate, they got underway quickly and motored toward the concrete Route 123 bridge. An osprey swooped near their boat—maybe the same one that Harley had seen from the park. From the swivel chair next to Harley, Dirk told the group that ospreys bred on the channel markers up and down the Occoquan River, and then migrated to Central and South America for the winter. “Scientists can track them,” he said, “by putting satellite transmitters on their backs. The record for migration is twenty-seven hundred miles in less than two weeks.”
“What do they eat?” asked Leah.
“Live fish,” said Dirk. “They are excellent anglers, diving into the water and coming up with fish in their talons. They like these shallow waters where the fish swim close to the surface.”
“I saw a bald eagle this morning,” announced Harley. “A spectacular bird.”
“Right about that,” agreed Dirk. “There are a number of nests on Mason Neck. I’m glad you saw one.”
Mary Ranger was heavyset and in her late fifties, with short, bleached-blond hair and a big smile. She knew everyone in town, given the fact that there was no residential delivery and everyone picked up their mail from a post office box. She asked Harley how he was settling into Occoquan, and then talked with Leah about the activity at her health clinic. After telling Tim about a dead bush at the edge of the post office parking lot that he really ought to replace, she teased Dirk about allowing his mailbox to overflow.
“That’s because I never get any good mail,” he complained. “Can’t you do something about that?”
Harley was happy to have his boat full of people, especially on such a lovely summer day. He had realized that a large part of his anger over the past year was grounded in loneliness. Yes, he was rightly upset about the way that Karen and Jessica had died, and the injustice of their killings continued to ang
er him, but on a more fundamental level he simply missed them. Companionship was as life-giving to him as food and drink.
“Dirk, how is your music going?” asked Tie-dye Tim.
“Not bad. I feel like I’m not drawing the crowds I used to, but Maxine’s still likes to have me.”
“Well,” said Tim. “Occoquan is changing. There are not as many white people as there used to be, natural fans of country music.”
Dirk nodded. “Yes, that’s true. A lot of changes going on. Not all of them good.”
“But there are certainly some good ones,” interjected Leah. “The new places to eat and drink are great, I think. They are turning Occoquan into a real foodie town.”
“Yeah, but they are driving up rents and making it harder for regular people to live around here,” complained Dirk. “I thought the area was fine as it was.”
“What, you liked the Yarn Shop?” teased Tie-dye.
“No, not really. I’m not a yarn guy. New restaurants are fine, but I like slow change,” said the Marine.
“You’ll have to get used to things changing,” said Leah. “Racially, culturally, economically. The people I’m seeing at my clinic are not the white folks of old Prince William County.”
“You Republicans used to be change agents,” Tie-dye said. “Now you are change resisters. Remember the liberty pole?”
“Sure I do,” said Dirk. “I’ve got no problem with liberty. In fact, we Republicans are still all about liberty. We hold on to the Bill of Rights: freedom of religion, right to bear arms, right to privacy.”
“You say you support freedom of religion, but all through Northern Virginia you have people objecting to the building of mosques,” Tie-dye said. “Did you hear what happened in Culpeper? A Republican led a protest that resulted in a sewer permit for a mosque being denied. Now the project is on hold. Those kinds of permits are routinely approved for churches.”
“I think that’s dead wrong,” insisted Dirk. “Anyone who wants to worship in peace should be allowed to do so. Freedom should be for everyone—that’s what I fought for. I’ll do anything to protect my family, my community, and the American way of life. Anything.” He turned in his swivel chair and faced forward along with Harley. “They think I’m a dinosaur, but I’m not. I just value tradition.”
“I hear you, Dirk,” said Harley. “Where would the church be without tradition?”
“Amen, brother.”
“At the same time, you know what God says, don’t you? In Revelation? ‘I am making all things new.’”
“Now you’re just meddling, Pastor,” Dirk smiled.
“Hey, look at that,” one of the girls in the bow shouted, pointing to the port side.
“Snake,” said Dirk, standing up to get a better look. “Northern watersnake. They can get pretty big, up to almost four feet, but they are harmless.” The girls squealed as they watched it traverse the river.
Dirk settled back in his swivel chair and continued to face forward. Tie-dye Tim, Mary and Leah chatted on the stern bench seats. Harley looked around to make sure that everyone was safe and comfortable, and then checked his instrument panel. He sensed that Dirk wanted a little quiet time, so he let him be. The girls were having a good time up front with their grandfather, watching for birds and fish and maybe even another snake.
Tradition, Harley thought. So important to the church. And yet, congregations that remained trapped in the past were doomed, because God was always working for transformation, leading people into new understandings of themselves and the people around them.
For most of Christian history, slavery was accepted by the church. Women were long considered second-class citizens. Homosexuals had been routinely condemned. Bad traditions! Harley thought.
Harley’s awakening on homosexuality had come through a friendship with a fellow seminarian, an Illinois farm boy from a very conservative family, who came out in the 1980s. Although members of the Methodist Church debated the morality of homosexuality for decades, using a variety of biblical and theological arguments, Harley was convinced that gays and lesbians could be good and moral people. For proof, he looked no farther than his friend, who had been a good and righteous man, faithful to the church, and never sexually exploitative.
Tradition. What about hatred toward Muslims? Is my intervention with Omar another awakening?
Harley sensed that God was leading him into a deeper relationship with Omar and the Bayati family. As he thought about the New Testament, he realized that Jesus always reached out and embraced people at the margins of society—the poor, the sick, women and children. Jesus got in trouble for eating with tax collectors and sinners, and for criticizing the religious leaders of his day. There was something edgy about Jesus, a willingness to enter into uncharted territory with nothing but love and acceptance. Maybe Jesus would reach out to Muslims today, people who were on the margins of American society. As radical as such an approach seemed, Harley had the feeling that it was absolutely central to the tradition that Jesus started.
“Ready to leave the no-wake zone?” asked Dirk, pulling Harley out of his meditation.
“Yeah, right,” he responded, realizing that he had become oblivious to the channel markers. He warned his passengers that he was about to accelerate and told them to hold on to their hats. For forty-five minutes they raced up the Potomac River, bouncing over the waves and enjoying the breeze on the water. Everyone seemed to enjoy the speed, especially Leah, who had not been out of the no-wake zone on their previous trip.
Harley thought she looked fantastic, with the sun reflecting off her sunglasses and the wind in her hair. He was so glad that she had agreed to come on the trip. On the left they saw George Washington’s Mount Vernon, and on the right they got a look at Fort Washington, a stone structure designed to protect the city from a river attack. “The British attacked it during the War of 1812,” shouted Dirk over the engine noise, “and the Americans chickened out. They retreated from the fort and blew it up. Not our finest moment.”
Approaching Alexandria, Harley pulled the throttle back and slowed as they passed through another no-wake zone. Mary changed places with Paul, while Leah and Tie-dye continued to chat. Speaking over the windshield, Harley asked Mary if she had an impression of the Bayatis.
“Solid citizens,” she said. “Always polite and careful.”
“What did you think when Muhammad was arrested?”
“I was shocked,” Mary admitted. “I had seen him in the post office with Norah over the years, and he was never anything but respectful. My impression was that he adored her.”
“Yeah, but you don’t know what goes on behind closed doors,” Dirk interrupted. “I heard she could be pretty feisty.”
“True,” said Mary. “That was her reputation. And Lord knows that it is hard for immigrant kids to navigate the United States, caught between family traditions and American freedoms. But I still think that Muhammad was crazy about her.”
“We’ll see,” Dirk responded. “The courts will sort things out.”
Mary turned to give attention to her granddaughters, and Harley pondered her words. He figured that a postmistress knew more about the people of a town that anyone else. And if she believed that Muhammad was innocent, she was probably correct.
So, that left which prime suspects? Will? Matt? Abdul? The Muslim motorcycle guy, or one of his Woodbridge buddies? Harley didn’t sense that Omar suspected the Woodbridge guys, but there was no question that they were violent. Maybe one of them was involved with Norah and not even her brother knew it.
“Did I tell you I went to the hospital?” said Dirk, out of nowhere.
“No,” Harley responded. “Really?”
“Chest pains. Really excruciating. Spent a night in the hospital.”
“I hope you are okay.”
“Yeah, the docs aren’t exactly sure what happened. The good news is that I didn’t have a heart attack.”
“Well, that’s great,” said Harley. “Thanks for informing
your pastor, so he could visit.”
“Look, I don’t need any hand-holding.”
“Still, I would have liked to visit. It’s my job.”
“You can save it for some little old lady. Speaking of hospitals, I heard you almost ended up in one when you pulled the Bayati boy off his burning boat.”
“Actually, it went well. Got him well away before the explosion.”
“You were lucky.”
“No doubt about it. I had to make a split-second decision, and it worked out.”
“What were you doing there, anyway?”
“Just enjoying my boat,” Harley said, hoping that he wouldn’t sound like he was lying.
“Really?” Dirk replied, less than convinced.
“You know the spot, Dirk. You took me there.”
“Just be more careful in the future. That kind of recklessness can get you killed. I don’t want to lose my pastor.”
The boat pulled up to the dock outside Nationals Park in time for the first pitch, and the group had a great time watching the Washington Nationals beat the New York Mets, four to three. Harley enjoyed seeing the little girls enter the ballpark for the first time, eyes wide with amazement at the size of the park, the deep green of the field, and the bright lights of the digital scoreboard. As they munched on popcorn and hotdogs, he remembered taking Jessica to her first game at Camden Yards in Baltimore, since there was no Nats Park at the time—a magical moment for any parent and child.
Their trip home on the boat was uneventful, and they tied up in Occoquan just as the sun dipped below the horizon. Harley said goodbye to everyone, and Dirk stayed behind to help him put the cover on the boat.
As he left, Dirk said, “Harley, thanks for your concern about the hospital thing. I’ll tell you when I really need you.”
CHAPTER 15
“Harley, do you have time to talk this morning?” Mary Ranger asked from behind the counter of the Occoquan Post Office. “I’ll have a break in about an hour. Can I stop by your office?”
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