City of Peace

by Henry G. Brinton

  Harley walked across Washington Street toward the church, wondering what in the world she needed to discuss. She and Paul had seemed very relaxed and happy the day before, so he didn’t think that they were having marital problems. The fact that she had signed up for the baseball game and brought her grandchildren gave him the impression that she liked him personally. Mary was active on the Riverside Methodist worship committee, so if she didn’t care for his preaching or the way he led the services, she certainly could have said something at a committee meeting. Harley was stumped.

  Over the course of his ministry, he had a terrible record of guessing what problems people were facing. He once assumed that a couple was having money problems, only to discover that the husband was gay. Another time, he guessed that a conservative family was leaving the church because of his preaching, only to discover that their best friends had moved away and they had lost their anchor in the congregation. Then there was the unpleasant experience of meeting with a man who said he wanted to discuss the music program only to end up attacking Harley on his failures of leadership.

  As he approached the church, he noticed that a sign on the corner of Commerce and Washington, which said Historic Occoquan Welcomes You, was on its side. It looked as though a motorist had clipped one of the large wooden posts supporting it. Probably a drunk leaving the brewpub in the middle of the night, thought Harley. He turned the key in the side door of the church and entered his office, walking first to his window air conditioner to crank it up and cool the room. He booted up his computer, knowing that he would have to spend a few hours on his Sunday sermon, and then checked his answering machine for messages.

  “One new message, zero saved messages,” said the electronic voice. The new message was a pleasant surprise—an invitation from the Ayads to come over for dinner that night. He immediately grabbed the phone and returned the call, telling Sofia that he would be very happy to join them.

  Then he organized a stack of the church’s mail, which he had picked up that morning at the post office. Flipping through the envelopes, he separated the items addressed to him from the bills that he would give to the church treasurer. Harley thought about the church secretaries and office administrators that had always done this kind of work at his previous churches, ensuring that his mail always appeared in a neat pile in his office cubbyhole. Now, sitting in his silent office, he realized that he didn’t really mind sorting the mail at the start of each day. But he did miss having another human being in the office, a living person to keep the building from being so deathly quiet.

  Knowing that he wouldn’t have time to get into his sermon before Mary’s arrival, he walked into the sanctuary to check the level of disorder from the Sunday service. Riverside employed a cleaning service, so Harley didn’t have to act as church custodian as well as pastor. A team came in once a week to scrub the bathrooms and vacuum the sanctuary and office, and every month they did a complete dusting and polished the floors of the social hall downstairs. But the team did not straighten up the sanctuary after Sunday worship, so every week Harley put hymnals back in pew racks and picked up worship bulletins from the floor. It was menial work, but Harley considered it to be an act of pure service to the congregation, and he enjoyed the sanctuary as a place where his mind could wander in unexpected directions. Through it all, black Jesus gazed down at him from the stained-glass window, calming the waters and asking the questions, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”

  Harley flipped through a set of brochures in an information rack near the entrance to the church. Many were outdated, advertising church programs that had died years before. He tossed entire stacks of brochures into a recycling bin. He marveled at how people were reluctant to dispose of anything associated with the church, assuming that it must have some kind of holiness attached to it. Better to clear the deck and make space for brochures that actually look forward, he thought. As he tossed away a final stack, he heard Mary Ranger calling out to him from the office.

  “Harley, thanks for making time for me. I know you must be busy.”

  Everyone always says that, thought Harley. “No problem. Happy to meet with you.”

  “That was so much fun yesterday,” Mary said as she settled into a wooden arm chair in front of Harley’s desk. He sat down in a similar chair across from her. “Paul and the girls really enjoyed it. Paul is taking off the whole week to babysit, and I’m glad that I could take off Monday and Tuesday to have some fun together. When the grandkids come here, we call it ‘Camp Occoquan.’”

  “Sounds like fun,” said Harley. A wave of grief passed over him as he realized that he would never be able to offer such a thing.

  “Yes, we walk along the river with them, get ice cream, feed the ducks. There is so much here that kids love.”

  “I bet.”

  “And your boat is great,” Mary continued. “Taking it to the ballpark was a real treat. We’ve talked about getting one, but have never moved seriously in that direction. You know what they say: Better to have a friend with a boat than a boat of your own.”

  Harley nodded, hoping that she would get to her point. “So, Mary, how can I help you?”

  “There’s just something that I think you need to know,” she said, getting serious. “It concerns Tim Underwood.”

  “Oh, really,” said Harley. “Is he okay?”

  “As far as I know, yes. But there is something from his past that I feel I must tell you. If you just bumped into him on the street, it wouldn’t be a big deal. But since he has been coming to church here, I think you need to hear about it. If you are going to be his pastor, you need this background.”

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Tim is about my age,” Mary said, running her fingers through her short blond hair, “not quite sixty. As long as I have known him, he has lived in his parents’ house on Tanyard Hill. His dad was dead when I started work here in 1985, but his mother lived in the house with Tim until she died just two years ago. He always took care of her, and never married.”

  Harley felt a chill as he conjured an image of a decrepit Victorian mansion, one filled with sickening family secrets and supernatural horrors.

  “Anyway,” Mary continued, “Tim has always worked for the maintenance department, so he spends a lot of time in the community. You see him doing his work, I know. About twenty-five years ago, when Tim was in his mid-thirties, he starting paying a lot of attention to a young woman in Occoquan, a teenager named Holly. He would talk with her at her bus stop in the morning, and sometimes follow her home in his little cart in the afternoon. Her parents got concerned, and asked her what was going on. She said that he was just a funny guy, harmless. I think she enjoyed the attention. But they didn’t like it one bit. They told him to stay away from her.”

  Harley started to feel a little sick to his stomach. “How did Tim react to this?” he asked.

  “I think he brushed it off as a big misunderstanding. Tried to laugh it off, as Tim is wont to do. He kept his distance for a while, but this is a small town, and people are going to run into each other. When Holly’s parents saw him talking to her on a street corner, they threatened to get a restraining order.”

  “That’s serious,” said Harley. “What happened?”

  “Well, they weren’t successful,” Mary reported. “The standards are pretty high for a restraining order. Tim had never laid a hand on her, so the judge said that he couldn’t issue an order. But he reminded Tim that he was a grown man, and he ought to stay away from her. The parents were so upset that they put their house on the market and moved out of town.”

  “Do you think they overreacted?”

  “Probably. But Tim was being inappropriate, no doubt about it. Maybe even obsessed. He was given the label of ‘creepy guy,’ which has stuck with him to this day.”

  “That’s kind of odd,” said Harley, “since I’ve never heard anyone say that about him.”

  “You’re just not talking to the right people,” said Mary. “A
ny parents of children or teenagers will tell you that they keep their kids away from him. The reputation has stuck, and it just gets passed from generation to generation.”

  “Kind of sad to have to carry that burden.”

  “Maybe,” said Mary. “Maybe not. You are in a better position to judge than I. I just thought that you needed to know.”

  “Yes, thank you. That is good information to have.”

  “I better get back to the post office. My break is over. I feel better for having gotten it off my chest.”

  Harley walked her to the door and stepped into the bright sunshine alongside her. Enjoying a breath of fresh air, he walked with her across the parking lot and said goodbye as she walked south on Washington Street. Then he saw Tie-dye Tim in his golf cart next to the broken Occoquan sign. A midnight-blue Mercedes pulled away from the curb, and Tim gave it a wave. The world is just a little too small in the Town of Occoquan, thought Harley.

  “Was that who I think it was?” asked Harley, as he stepped across Commerce Street.

  “Jefferson and Abdul,” said Tim, nodding. “Jefferson was very concerned about the sign. Abdul, of course, said nothing. Just sat there looking pumped.”

  “Nice of Jefferson to be concerned.”

  “Yeah, he loves the town. Told me that he would make a special donation to get it fixed.”

  “Well, that’s being a good citizen,” said Harley.

  “Good citizen,” agreed Tim, “and good businessman. He’s got his eye on redeveloping Mill Street, and he’ll need the approval of the town council.”

  “So, what do you think happened here?” asked Harley.

  “Definitely a vehicle that jumped the curb. You can see the tire tracks in the flower bed. But it was a hit-and-run, sometime last night.”

  “One too many at the pub?”

  “Probably,” Tim agreed. “I’ve seen similar accidents before. Would be nice if someone took responsibility, but I doubt anyone will.”

  “Can you get it back up?”

  “Sure thing. The sign itself was not damaged, just the posts. Remount the sign on some new posts and we’ll be good to go.”

  “I guess you’re the guy to do it, Tim.”

  “That’s why they pay me.”

  Harley gave Tim a careful look, trying to picture him as the creepy guy who followed a teenager home from the bus stop. He had a hard time seeing it. But then he remembered Tim’s description of Norah Bayati, and how he had become a bit more emotional than seemed appropriate. Maybe he still struggled with being obsessive.

  “Thanks for the boat ride yesterday,” Tim continued. “That was a lot of fun. Hope I didn’t make Dirk too mad. You know, with my busting on Republicans and their anti-Muslim bias.”

  “He’s a big boy,” said Harley. “He can handle it.”

  “Speaking of Muslims, I talked with your buddy Omar this morning.”

  “Why do you call him my buddy?” asked Harley, surprised.

  “Well, you saved his life. And then you spent yesterday morning with him in the park.” It was impossible to keep a secret in Occoquan.

  “Okay, so what did Omar say?”

  Tim leaned back in the seat of his golf cart and stroked his gray beard. “I ran into him on Mill Street when I was picking up some trash. Asked him how his father was doing in jail, and whether there had been any developments in the case. He told me that his father was doing okay, and he was glad that he was eating again. But he said that the police had suspended their investigation since they seem convinced that his dad is the killer.”

  “Yes, that fits with what I’ve heard,” Harley said.

  “So then I asked him if anyone had questioned Norah’s boyfriend. He said that he had heard about an American boyfriend, but no one knew who he was. Norah was very secretive about seeing Americans, because she knew her parents would object. Omar said that his family had told the police about a boyfriend, but they had no evidence to go on. Her apartment was small, just a one-room efficiency with a bed and kitchenette. They went over it completely and found no fingerprints except from Norah, her sister, her mother, and her father. There was nothing in her room to implicate anyone else, not even anything in her cell phone. Nothing to link her to a boyfriend. It was a total dead end.”

  “Strange that the police would give up so easily.”

  “Well, they felt that Mohammed was their man. They knew that Norah was trying to break away from her family, working for the county after college. They knew that she had fought with her father about seeing an American. It was natural that they would focus on Muhammad. Anyway, I told Omar that I had seen a white man with dark hair, probably in his thirties, entering Norah’s apartment on several occasions. He went to the back wing late at night, up the outside staircase to her room. I never saw him leave, but of course I didn’t just hang around watching.”

  “Why didn’t you report this to the police?” asked Harley.

  “I didn’t see him on the night she died. And hey, it’s not a crime to visit someone in their apartment. If Norah wanted to have an American boyfriend, good for her. I’m not going to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “Really, Tim? It seems to me like you do a pretty good job of nosing around.”

  Harley’s comment seemed to annoy Tim a bit, so he pushed back. “Do you want to hear what Omar said or not?”

  “Okay, go on.”

  “So anyway, I told Omar about the dark-haired man, but made clear that I had not seen him on the night of her death. He asked me who it could have been, and I said I never saw him up close or in the light. He asked if he came in a car, and I said no—he was always walking. He would come between the buildings behind her apartment and go straight to her room. Omar asked me if I knew anyone in town who would fit that description, and I said I had thought about that question quite a bit. The only two I could come up with were Will Beckley and Dirk Carter’s son, Matt. Omar said that he knew Will and didn’t think that Norah would be interested in him, but he wanted to hear more about Matt. At first, he wasn’t sure he had ever seen Matt.”

  “Wait a second, Tim. Are you serious? Matt could have been Norah’s boyfriend?”

  “I’m just reporting on a possibility, Harley. I’m not the judge and jury. I have seen Matt going in and out of the building behind the Bayatis’ place a number of times, so it figures that he might have been involved with her. I described Matt to Omar, told him about Matt’s comings and goings, and suddenly a light bulb went off in Omar’s head. He realized that he had seen him behind his house, and now he had a name to go with the face. He became convinced that Matt was Norah’s American boyfriend.”

  “Seems like a stretch to me, Tim.”

  “Look, Harley, I know that you are friends with Dirk and Matt, so I can understand your reluctance to see it. But Omar seems sold on the idea, and he told me this morning that he was going straight to the Prince William County Police.”

  “What?” said Harley. “Omar is going to the police?”

  “Yes, he went to them with the name and description of his number one suspect.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Youssef Ayad was standing at the front door of the Gold Emporium when Harley stepped on the stoop after the short walk across Washington Street from Riverside Methodist. The day was still very warm, but a front with cooler air was coming in from the west. Youssef welcomed Harley, motioned him to come inside, and then pulled down a shade on the door that said Closed. The two of them ascended the creaking wooden stairs, and waiting for them at the top was Sofia.

  “We have been looking forward to seeing you, Pastor Camden,” she said, grinning broadly. “Welcome to our home.” Harley was struck again by how similar they looked to each other. They could have been brother and sister.

  “Please, call me Harley,” he said, extending his hand.

  “And we, of course, want to be Youssef and Sofia to you,” she added. “Come, have a seat.” She led him into their small living area and motioned for him to
take a seat on the couch. Youssef sat next to Harley, and Sofia pulled up a chair so that she could face the pastor. She offered tea and a cucumber sandwich.

  As they nibbled and sipped, Sofia told him about the relatives they had visited in London, and Youssef mentioned that they attended the Coptic Church of St. Mark while there—a church with the same name as their Fairfax congregation.

  “Of course, that is no big surprise,” Yousef added, “since St. Mark founded the Coptic Church.”

  “We have to get more creative with our names,” said Sofia, slyly. “I like your church’s name, Riverside.”

  “It seems to fit the location,” Harley said.

  “Riverside makes me think of Moses being pulled out of the river in Egypt. And Jesus being baptized in the Jordan River. Rivers carry a message of new life,” Sofia said.

  “We have an African American spiritual called ‘Down in the River to Pray,’” Harley told them. “I like to the think of my church members coming down in the river to pray.”

  “We like your church members,” said Youssef. “Some have been our customers for many years.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Harley replied. “So, how do you feel the Bayatis are doing?”

  “I saw Muhammad in jail last week,” Youssef said. “He seems to be holding up well, and is eating again—thanks to you.” Harley waved away his compliment.

  “And Fatima is working to keep the business going, with the help of Sarah and Omar,” said Sofia. “The days are long, the work is hard, and she misses Muhammad. But business seems to be back to where it was before the tragedy.”

  “Yes, they are under a lot of stress,” Harley said.

  “Indeed they are,” said Youssef. “The loss of a child, the jailing of the father, an attack by hoodlums—probably from the Muslim community. Fatima won’t talk about that with us, for fear of reprisals. She is worried about us, as well as her own family.”

  “And she’s getting pressure to sell the property as well,” added Sofia.

  “From Jefferson Jones?” asked Harley.