City of Peace

by Henry G. Brinton

  “So, if you needed his help, you were showing weakness?”

  “Right. He expected me to be a man, and I didn’t want to disappoint him.”

  “I guess that makes sense at a certain age,” said Harley. “But not when you are five or six. I think he should have protected you.”

  “I guess. But what’s the point of being resentful? I can’t change the past. He’s dead, and has been dead for a long time.”

  Harley thought about how the dead continued to grab hold of the living and mess with them, no matter how long they had been in the grave. Dirk was old enough to be a grandfather, but he still winced when he saw a mother beat a child.

  “My own parents were kind of the opposite,” Harley said. “My dad was the disciplinarian, distant and judgmental. My mother was softhearted and compassionate, which I loved. But as I think back, I really wish she had shielded me more from my dad.”

  Dirk sipped his coffee and said, “What can you do? They were who they were, for good or bad. They probably thought that if they fed and sheltered us, they were doing their jobs.”

  “That’s true,” Harley nodded. “They grew up in the Depression and had fears we never faced. There is a picture of my grandparents from the 1920s, before they had my dad, a couple of hard-scrabble dirt farmers. They look absolutely miserable.”

  “The good old days,” said Dirk with a hint of a smile.

  “So, how is Matt doing?” asked Harley, trying to sound as though he were making small talk. In fact, he was intensely curious about whether the police had been in touch with him, but he didn’t want to pry. Three days had passed since Omar made his accusation.

  “He’s been better,” Dirk acknowledged, sounding burdened. “As you may have heard, the Prince William Police questioned him about the Bayati killing. I don’t know who pointed the finger at him. Maybe Omar. I never liked that kid, from the moment I met him at the American Legion. This is not something that Matt needs to face.”

  “Did Matt know Norah?” asked Harley.

  “Know her?” Dirk asked with an edge in his voice. “Well, I guess so. He was investigating the whole family. Probably because of Omar’s suspicious activities.”

  Harley let this statement stand for a few seconds, trying to be comfortable with awkward silence.

  “The FBI has to get close to the people they are investigating,” Dirk continued. “Matt was probably poking around in their lives for several months, and then there was a week of surveillance from the property behind their house. But I’m sure you know all this. Tim Underwood has been telling everybody.”

  “Yes, that matches what I’ve heard.”

  “I’m just concerned about what this will do to Matt’s career. He is a straight arrow, and his career is on a great path. I don’t want anything to derail him.”

  “Sounds like you are worried.”

  “Absolutely. It would be wrong for him to be hurt by this. A gross miscarriage of justice.”

  Harley thought that Dirk’s choice of words was a bit odd, but he let it pass. Instead, he asked, “So how is he holding up?”

  “Fine, I guess,” said Dirk. “You know Matt. He is not exactly one to share his feelings.”

  “Like father, like son.”

  “Think so? Compared to Matt, I am an open book.”

  Harley cleaned up the wrappers from the cinnamon rolls and asked Dirk what he was going to do with the rest of his day. Dirk said that he was going to clean his boat and then take it down the Potomac to a riverfront restaurant where he had a gig at happy hour.

  “Want to come along?” asked Dirk.

  “No, but thanks anyway,” said Harley. “I’ve got to finish up my sermon for tomorrow.”

  “I’ll sing to the sinners,” Dirk joked, “and then you’ll preach to the saints.”

  Dirk gathered up his plumber’s snake, thanked Harley for the coffee and the roll, and headed downstairs. Harley followed him into the street and they parted company. As Dirk pulled away, Harley thought of an ossuary from Sepphoris, a Jewish bone box containing a Roman coin that his team had uncovered so many years before. Although he hadn’t thought about it since the Duke reunion, that mysterious relic somehow seemed connected to the death of Norah Bayati. But he had no idea how or why.

  Harley strolled west toward the River Mill Park. Passing the bakery and the brewpub, he looked to see if the Bayatis were at work and if there were any morning drinkers in the pub. Yes on both counts. Then he approached a vacant lot along the river, one that had been an industrial dock in the days when the mill was active. As he passed the lot, he saw a midnight-blue Mercedes parked on Mill Street. Jefferson and Abdul were nearby. Turning toward the river, he saw them. Jefferson was in a seersucker suit, and Abdul was in a form-fitting T-shirt and warm-up pants. They stood by the water, looking up and down the river.

  Not wanting to look like a stalker, Harley stopped to read one of the historical markers placed along Mill Street. He pretended to show interest in the history of the old mill, but after reading the marker three times he was about to give up and continue his walk. Fortunately, the two men headed to their car and Harley was in a good position to intercept them when they reached the sidewalk.

  “Good morning,” said Harley to Jefferson, extending his hand. “I’m Harley Camden, the new pastor of Riverside Methodist.”

  “Jefferson Jones,” replied the gray-haired real-estate developer. He had a rat-like face, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How are you liking my old church?”

  “Very nice,” said Harley. He turned to Abdul and shook his hand. It felt like a vise. “Harley Camden,” he said.

  “Abdul,” said the beefy younger man.

  “I was just out for a walk,” Harley continued. “This is a great walking town.”

  “Indeed it is,” agreed Jefferson. “I am glad we could meet. I heard about you from my daughter.”

  “Tawnya, yes. I have been happy to get to know her. Lovely woman. Nice husband.”

  “So how are you settling in?” asked the older man.

  “Pretty well,” said Harley. “The congregation has been welcoming, as have the people in the town. I have a boat and am enjoying the river. The townhouse provided by the church is beautiful.”

  “Yes, those are very fine homes.”

  “Of course, the death of the Bayati girl has been terrible.”

  “An awful tragedy,” agreed Jefferson.

  Harley paused to see if Jefferson would say more, but he did not. He glanced at Abdul, but the man was stone-faced.

  “It appears that there is potential for additional development here in Occoquan,” Harley said.

  “Yes, there is,” said Jefferson. “My colleague and I are in that business, as you know. We think that this particular parcel has a great deal of potential.”

  “What are you thinking? A restaurant or a small hotel?”

  “It is too early to say,” Jefferson replied. “Occoquan could probably support either, if they were done correctly. We are still thinking about how to develop the site if we are successful in acquiring it.”

  “I wish you luck, Jefferson. It’s a great little town.” Harvey shifted his gaze. “So, Abdul, I have a question for you. What do you think of the Bayatis?”

  The big man seemed shocked. Not only by the question but also by the fact that he was being addressed directly. In the course of their business dealings, Jefferson did most of the talking. He looked at Jefferson, who nodded permission.

  “They are good people,” Abdul said.

  “You share their faith, do you not?” asked Harley.

  “Yes, I do,” Abdul said.

  “As a Muslim, do you believe what people are saying about Norah’s death being an honor killing?”

  Abdul ran one of his beefy hands across his shaved head and then wiped his mouth. “I do not believe it. Her father would never do such a thing. He is a man of peace.”

  “Of course, we are not in a position to judge,” interrupted Jefferson. “We t
rust that justice will be done, in a court of law.”

  Harley looked Jefferson in the eye, wondering if he really believed what he was saying. On the one hand, he was a Republican and a businessman. On the other, he was an African American in the Commonwealth of Virginia, a state historically unkind to its black residents.

  Abdul had done time in prison, and Harley wondered what he thought of the potential for true justice in this case.

  “We both have deep sympathy for the Bayatis,” Jefferson continued. “My colleague Abdul considered Norah to be a friend. As for myself, I have been concerned about the financial strain that Muhammad’s arrest has put on the family. I have offered to help.”

  Harley wondered what kind of help he had offered, remembering the clear direction that Fatima had given him to get out of the bakery. But he couldn’t really assess Jefferson’s motives. He had no access to the man’s heart. If he had offered to buy the bakery, maybe he considered that proposal to be a sincere offer of help. From years of marriage counseling, Harley knew that there were two sides to every story, and both sides tended to make perfect sense.

  “I am sure that they appreciate your concern,” said Harley. “And I agree with you that I do not believe the charge of honor killing.” Abdul nodded, and Jefferson offered a tight smile.

  “Abdul, I think we should be on our way,” said Jefferson, pointing to the car. “Reverend Camden, it was a pleasure to meet you. I hope we will see you again.”

  Harley gave a nod as they drove off, and then continued his walk toward the River Mill Park. He was proud of himself for asking tough questions instead of simply making small talk. The deaths of Jessica and Karen had turned him into a more honest and probing person, even if it made others uncomfortable.

  After walking the perimeter of the park, Harley intended to head straight for the church to continue work on his sermon. Dark and angry clouds rolled in from the west, and the wind picked up, transforming what had been a calm and sunny summer day. As he picked up his pace, thoughts about the importance of honesty bounced around his head, and he wondered about including the scripture verse about truth making people free. Then, as he passed the Riverview Bakery, the front door flew open and Omar ran out. Harley tried to intercept him.

  “Get out of my way,” shouted Omar as he pushed past him.

  “Omar, what’s going on?” he called out as he followed him toward the dock.

  “I don’t want to talk.”

  The young man slowed as he got to the water’s edge and then stepped onto his family’s dock. Harley followed. They stood for a minute, looking out at the whitecaps stirred up by the wind now snapping at them like a bullwhip.

  “Your justice system sucks,” said Omar. “The police have found no evidence that Matt Carter was involved in Norah’s death. They want to pin it on my father, even though he is innocent. I am furious. Your country hates me, hates my family, hates my religion. We will never be treated fairly here. For us, there can be no justice, no peace.”

  Tears filled Omar’s eyes. As the wind and rain whipped around them, Harley felt a flood of compassion.

  CHAPTER 18

  The bishop stepped out of her office in Alexandria and greeted Harley. She was nothing if not perfectly punctual and looked as handsome as ever in a light-blue blouse with clerical collar, black skirt, and black heels. Harley stood, shook her hand, noted that her heels gave her a height advantage, and followed her into her fifth-floor office. The bishop sat in the tall executive chair, which made Harley feel as though he were a bank customer asking for a loan. It was his first meeting with the bishop since being assigned to a new church.

  “So, you’ve been in Occoquan for how long,” asked the bishop, “about six weeks?”

  “Yes, started in mid-June. I’m still unpacking but am pretty well set up in the church and the house.”

  “How do you like the town?”

  “So far, so good. It is small enough to have a Mayberry feel, but so close to DC that it doesn’t feel isolated.”

  “I hear you bought a boat,” said the bishop.

  “News travels fast. Yes, I’ve really enjoyed it. Never anticipated getting a boat, but the house has a dock, so why not?”

  “You deserve it. Especially with what you’ve been through.”

  “I really do enjoy going out on the river. It’s very peaceful, very relaxing. And I used it for a church event recently: took a group to Nationals Park.”

  The bishop smiled. “Let’s talk about the church. Did you bring your data sheets?”

  Harley pulled out two sets of papers and gave one of them to the bishop. He knew how important metrics were to her. The first page contained numbers for worship attendance, the second was a summary of the church budget, and the third contained information on infant baptisms, adult baptisms, Sunday School attendance, home visits, hospital visits, funerals and weddings. Each page was divided into actuals for the current year and goals for the next year, and at the end was a line for her to sign and date the packet, indicating satisfactory progress by the pastor.

  “Okay,” she said, looking at the sheets, “walk me through it.”

  “As you can see,” Harley began, “the best worship attendance so far was on my first Sunday—one hundred and five. The church was packed, since everyone wanted to check out the new guy. Since then, we’ve been fluctuating between sixty and eighty-five. I think a reach-goal for next year would be an average of ninety.”

  “How many members on the rolls?” asked the bishop.

  “Last year, the number reported to your office was one eighty-five,” Harley replied. “But I think that the number needs to be revised downward. I saw some people on the list who have died or moved away.”

  “So, ninety seems attainable?”

  “I think so. Might not seem like a huge number, but Occoquan has only a thousand residents.”

  “Of course, you are the only church.”

  “True. But some residents go elsewhere, and we draw from outside the town as well.”

  “How about your budget?” asked the bishop. They flipped to the second page of their packets. “Your total budget is one hundred and ninety-eight thousand per year, with sixty-seven pledging units. Average pledge of a little under three thousand per year. Not bad for Northern Virginia.”

  “As you can see, we send twenty thousand a year to the conference.”

  “Yes, thank you for that. The conference put a lot of money into Riverside when it was first established, so I am glad that your members remember that.”

  “I think we are tracking pretty well for contributions,” noted Harley. “The summer is often a slow period, but we are receiving about what we expected.”

  “Things will pick up in the fall,” said the bishop. “And you’ll do your annual stewardship campaign. What will your goal be for 2018?”

  “I’d like to have us shoot to surpass two hundred thousand. I think that will be an important barrier to break. I’d like to do an interfaith speakers series in the new year, and put some money in the budget for that.”

  “Will that inspire giving?” asked the bishop, with skepticism in her voice.

  “It is certainly important,” Harley replied, “and I think the people of Occoquan feel it very personally. We had the murder of a Muslim woman this summer, and—”

  “Yes, I heard about that,” interrupted the bishop.

  “Still unsolved,” added Harley. “Really weighing heavily on the community. So, we have Muslims in the community, Jews as well. I’ve gotten to know some Copts, who are Christian, of course, but from the Orthodox tradition.”

  “I can sense your passion,” said the bishop, “but I’m not sure you want to base a budget expansion on interfaith relations. People want to get their personal needs met. How about expanding the youth program or doing a series on parenting?”

  Harley’s heart sank. The bishop was trying to cram Riverside Methodist into a prepackaged program for church growth. Next thing you know, she’s going to ask m
e about the cleanliness of the bathrooms and the nursery.

  “So, how are your bathrooms?” she asked. “Updated recently? And your nursery? Clean and modern?”

  “Not really,” Harley admitted. “But I’ll take your recommendations back to our church property committee.”

  Harley had been in a growing church in Sterling, so he knew all about the importance of making a positive impression on families with children and youths. But how can this be my highest priority with Norah’s killer on the loose and a terrorist group preparing to unleash a biological weapon? Sprucing up the nursery seemed like repainting the Pentagon right before the 9/11 attack.

  “Let’s look at your last page,” suggested the bishop. “One infant baptism, zero adult baptisms, Sunday School off for the summer, eight home visits, five hospital visits, one funeral and zero weddings. You’ve only been there for six weeks, so those numbers seem about right. What would you say your most significant visit has been since you arrived?”

  Here’s my chance, thought Harley. “Muhammad Bayati, a prisoner in the Prince William County Jail.” The bishop’s eyebrows raised. “He is the father of the young woman who was murdered. I was called by a corrections officer to visit him and see if I could convince him to end a hunger strike. The good news is that he is eating again, and since then I have developed a relationship with his teenage son. It started when I saved his life on Gunston Cove—his powerboat caught on fire and I was able to pluck him off before it exploded. So anyway, I have stayed in touch with him and we both hope that the killer of his sister will be arrested soon, so that his father will be released. Although this visit with Muhammad has not led to an adult baptism for my data sheet, I think it fits the category of visiting people in prison and maybe even encountering Jesus.”

  The bishop sat quietly for a few seconds, then picked up a pen, tapped it on her desk, and signed his packet. “Good work, Harley,” she said with a smile. “I think I did the right thing by sending you to Occoquan.”

  Returning home, Harley replayed the meeting in his mind and thought about his description of the visit to Muhammad. He hadn’t told the bishop everything but had given her a fairly accurate account of his involvement with Muhammad and Omar. No doubt she wanted him to focus on his little Methodist flock, but given the chaos in the Occoquan community she had to see that it was appropriate for him to step in as he did. He wondered if she was being sincere when she told him “good work” at the end, and at the same time he thought it was entirely predictable that she would take credit for the decision to send him into that community. If he turned out to be a hero, she would be the first to brag about putting him there. If he turned out to be a disaster, she could go on record saying that he was a troubled pastor who was sent there to heal from a personal trauma and quickly stuck his nose where it didn’t belong. The bishop was in a position of complete deniability when it came to Harley’s involvement with the Muslims, given the fact that she had done no more than sign a form that contained information about worship attendance, church budget, one baptism and a handful of visits. She’s good at her job, he admitted.