Glancing out of his car window, he saw dark clouds approaching; another summer thunderstorm was on its way. Powerful gusts came in from the west, sending newspapers and other litter across the travel lanes. Rain fell in waves of such volume that the Passat’s windshield wipers couldn’t clear it, even at the highest setting. Motorcyclists huddled under overpasses to wait out the storm, and a number of motorists pulled over to the side of the road and put on their emergency flashers. Harley motored at just a few miles an hour, plowing through standing water and trying to stay in line with the taillights in front of him.
And then it was over. The rain stopped and the wind ceased. Shafts of bright sunshine broke through the clouds, causing steam to rise off the wet pavement, and Harley half expected to hear a chorus of angels. The traffic quickly returned to normal speed, although the danger of standing water remained, and a few people performed dangerous evasive maneuvers to dodge puddles at the edges of the highway. Harley marveled at how people seemed to resent any disruptions of their anticipated travel plans, driving with reckless speed to regain any time they felt they had lost because of a storm or a traffic jam. He, on the other hand, had learned to modify his expectations of travel, and to anticipate that there would be disruptions of almost any trip around the Washington area. Clear roads were an anomaly, and he had come to see a smooth and uneventful trip as a gift rather than a right.
Rolling down I-95 toward the Occoquan exit, Harley realized that expectations always caused suffering, whether someone expected to have clear travel lanes or a long and happy life.
Pulling into the parking lot of the Riverside Church, Harley thought that the town looked shiny and new, as though it had been scrubbed clean by the passing thunderstorm, with sunlight sparkling in the puddles in the streets and in the water on the rooftops. He waved to Doris King and Eleanor Buttress, who were across Washington Street in front of the Yarn Shop, picking up a sandwich-board sign that had been blown over by the storm. Harley had been trying to be friendly to them in recent weeks, but the truth was that he was still intimidated by pit bull Doris. He entered his office, checked his messages, and wandered into the sanctuary to straighten things up from Sunday worship. Then he spent a couple of quiet hours at his desk, answering email and planning his work for the week.
The Washington Nationals had a game that night, so Harley ate dinner in front of the television. The Nats and the Braves were tied up in the eighth inning when Harley’s doorbell rang. Hating the interruption, he trudged to the door and opened it to see an intense Omar Bayati, standing on the porch in the twilight.
“I need to talk to you,” the young man said.
“Come in,” said Harley, motioning him to a seat at the kitchen table. The baseball game became distant background noise. “Want anything to drink?”
“No,” Omar replied, fidgeting nervously. He swallowed hard and said, “I want you to give me the camera.”
Harley didn’t reply immediately, but tried to figure out what might be driving this change of plan. After a few seconds, he said, “This is not what we discussed before.”
“Things are different now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just different. I really need the camera.”
“Omar, this is not what we discussed. We agreed that as soon as Norah’s killer was caught and your father was released, we would go to the police. We would turn over the camera and explain the situation.”
“But they don’t want to catch her killer. They want to pin the killing on my father.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“Just give me the camera,” Omar insisted. “It belongs to me.” He looked around the room, hoping that the camera was sitting in plain sight.
“No, I won’t do it. If you give it to the Woodbridge guys, they will use it to kill a lot of people, maybe even your family.”
Omar sat for a second, processing Harley’s words, and then hissed, “Give me the camera or I will report to the police that you touched me in the park.”
Harley felt stung by Omar’s words, but he wasn’t really surprised. The young man was revealing his desperation.
“Go ahead,” Harley responded. “Give it your best shot.”
Omar swallowed hard and said, “They are threatening me and my family. If I don’t give them the camera, they will go after Sarah and my mother. Worse than what they did before.”
Harley sensed that he had an opening, a chance to get Omar back on his side. An image of Youssef and Sofia Ayad popped into his mind, and he heard them saying a single word, “Hospitality.” In a bolt of inspiration, he got an idea. “How about if you disappear?”
“What?” asked Omar.
“You disappear. If the Woodbridge guys don’t know where you are, they cannot pressure you or threaten your family. Their threats only work if you are around to receive them.”
“But how can I disappear?”
“You can live here,” Harley offered. “In my guest suite on the top floor. No one will know that you are here. You can hide until your father gets out of jail.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes. You go gather some clothes, and I’ll tell your family that you are going away for a while, for your safety and theirs.”
CHAPTER 19
A strong wind began to blow across the Potomac River as the three men fished for catfish in the deep water near the Maryland side. Dirk looked up at the sky and said that the weather was turning and they better head home. Matt gathered up their fishing gear, stowed it away, and moved toward the bow to pull up the anchor. Harley put the key in the ignition and pressed the button to run the blower motor. He heard nothing and pressed it again. Still nothing. Feeling a wave of panic, he asked the more experienced boaters what might be wrong. Dirk opened the engine compartment, poked around for a few seconds, and turned a switch from battery one to battery two. He asked Harley to try again. Still dead. By now, the boat was being battered by the waves and the wind was against them, pushing them toward the Maryland shore. The anchor line was stretched tight, with the anchor just barely maintaining its hold on the sandy river bottom.
Angry clouds rolled in from the west, carried by the fierce wind. The sun was swallowed up and the day turned to night as sheets of rain assaulted them. Matt and Dirk grabbed their raincoats and put up their hoods, but Harley was unprepared and quickly became soaked to the skin. Lightning flashed on the horizon, followed by a crash of thunder. The three of them huddled in the cabin of the boat, hoping that they could ride out the storm and avoid a lightning strike.
Then, out of the darkness, someone came walking toward them on the river.
“What is that?” asked Dirk. Matt grabbed the boat’s spotlight, but its beam couldn’t pierce the driving rain. Harley moved toward the bow and squinted. Lightning flashed behind the figure and thunder boomed, explosions louder than the roar of the rain on the water. But then, cutting through the pandemonium, came a voice, “Harley, it is I; do not be afraid.”
Harley turned to his companions and shouted, “Did you hear that?” They shook their heads. He looked back toward the figure, who was approaching them but still a good twenty yards away. Harley heard the voice again, and this time it said, “Come.”
Harley swung his legs over the bow and put his feet into the churning water. Dirk shouted for him to stop and Matt lunged to grab him, missing him by a foot. Harley was already moving away from the boat, walking on the water. But then, when a gust of strong wind whipped around him, he became frightened and began to sink. Reaching toward the figure, he called out, “Lord, save me!”
Harley awoke with a start, wet with perspiration. His bedroom was as black as the storm on the river, but the air around him was air-conditioned and perfectly calm. His heart settled as he realized that he had been dreaming, but still he felt a sense of dread. No, he was not facing a lightning strike on the river, but he was sleeping one floor below a Muslim teenager who was supporting a plot to unleash a biolog
ical weapon. He had invited a potential terrorist to take up residence in his house, a young man who had threatened to accuse him of sexual molestation. What was I thinking? What am I doing? He envisioned Dirk shouting for him to stop, and Matt reaching out to grab him.
Staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, Harley thought about the danger he was in. What if Omar decides to sneak into my bedroom and smother me? Or slit my throat? Harley listened carefully for footsteps above him but heard nothing. Still, he realized that it would not be difficult for the young man to kill him in his sleep and then recover his camera from the trunk of Harley’s car. The terrorist plot would continue and Harley’s death would be reported in a small article in the Metro section of The Washington Post. Occoquan would gain a reputation as the murder capital of Prince William County, with two unsolved cases in a single summer. He gazed at the ceiling for a few more minutes, knowing that he was not helping himself by going to such dark places in his mind. But then, just to be safe, he got out of bed and locked his bedroom door.
It was five in the morning and Harley sat on the edge of the bed and touched his toes to the floor, thinking about how he had put his feet into the water at the end of his dream. What would Youssef, the interpreter of dreams, think of my most recent nighttime vision? The voice in the storm had been so clear when it said, “Do not be afraid.”
In time, the first shaft of morning light came through his bedroom window and Harley decided to dress for the day. After showering and putting on his clothes, he went downstairs and made coffee, and a few minutes later he heard footsteps on the staircase. Omar came down in a T-shirt and basketball shorts, looking more uncomfortable than dangerous. Harley gave him some coffee and offered him a bowl of cereal and a banana. The two of them ate breakfast together, beginning to get a feel for what it might be like for them to live together for a while.
“I’m happy to keep you fed and sheltered,” offered Harley, “but you are going to have to promise to keep yourself hidden.”
“I don’t want to see anybody, believe me.”
“Just keep the blinds pulled down in the guest suite. I’ll keep them down in the rest of the house. You can turn the bed back into a couch, and use the television in the suite. You’ve got a full bath, of course. I’ll put some food and drinks in the wet bar refrigerator so that you can make yourself some lunch. You can text me if you need anything during the day.”
“So, how long do you think I’ll be here?”
“Hard to say,” said Harley, sipping his coffee. “The best case is that your father gets out of jail soon. I can contact the guy at the newspaper, Henry Kim, and see if he can do a follow-up story on your dad.”
“But what about the Woodbridge guys?”
“The key there is to stay completely off the grid. Don’t be in touch with anyone by email, text, or social media. Just drop completely out of sight. If they cannot find you, they cannot hurt you. And I don’t think they’ll mess with your family if you are out of contact with them. Not even your mother knows where you are.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Just that you are safe. I told her that it is better that she does not know.”
“But what if I need to reach her?”
“You can send a message through me.”
Omar twirled his spoon in his cereal bowl as he considered Harley’s words. He wasn’t happy with the plan, but he couldn’t think of anything better.
“I just want my father to be released,” he said. “But I’m not trusting the system to do the right thing.”
“Give it time,” said Harley. “The wheels of justice turn slowly.”
“Whatever,” Omar replied with a sigh.
“Just keep yourself safe and out of sight,” Harley recommended. “And as hard as it will be for you, stay off of the internet.”
After Omar trudged back upstairs, Harley loaded the dishwasher, grabbed his briefcase, and walked to the church. He scanned the street up and down, looking for anyone who might seem out of place. Everything seemed normal with commuters driving slowly down the street and shopkeepers sweeping the sidewalks in front of their businesses. Youssef Ayad stuck his head out the door as Harley passed the Gold Emporium, and gave him a hearty greeting. The two chatted for a moment and Harley admitted that he had thought of Youssef in the middle of the night, after he awoke from his vivid dream.
“I’ll have to get together with you for some interpretation,” he said as he broke away and crossed the street.
Entering his office, he saw the light flashing on his answering machine and pressed the button to receive his message.
“Reverend Camden, this is Jefferson Jones. I’d like to have fifteen minutes of your time today, if you can make yourself available.” Harley was thrown a little off balance by the request but jotted down the number and immediately returned the call. Jefferson answered his cell phone on the second ring and they arranged to get together at eleven o’clock.
Tuesday mornings were a good time to prepare the Sunday bulletin, so Harley jumped into that task, figuring that it would prevent him from worrying excessively about what Jefferson Jones might be up to. He pulled a hymnal off his bookshelf and picked three hymns for the Sunday service, then booted up his computer and wrote the prayers that would be included in the order of worship. His work was interrupted once by a call from a church member asking Harley to visit her elderly mother in the hospital, but aside from that request he was able to focus on the Sunday bulletin until a knock came at his door.
“Mr. Jones,” said Harley to the impeccably-dressed man at the door, “please come in.” Although it was a hot July day, Jefferson Jones wore a blue linen suit with a red silk handkerchief in the breast pocket, one that matched his tie.
“Thank you for seeing me, Reverend Camden, especially on such short notice.”
“My pleasure. And please call me Harley.” He motioned Jefferson to take a seat in a wooden armchair in front of his desk, which the visitor did after taking a few seconds to look around the pastor’s office. Harley sat in a similar chair a few feet away from him, feeling terribly underdressed in his short sleeve shirt and casual tie.
“I haven’t been in here in years,” Jefferson said wistfully.
Tawnya must have gotten her beauty from her mother, thought Harley. Her dad was meticulously groomed, but brutishly unattractive.
“You know my uncle was the pastor of this church, don’t you?”
“Yes, I’ve heard good things about him.”
“He was quite a preacher.” Then, smiling slightly, he added, “And a rabble-rouser.”
“Quite active in the civil rights movement, I understand.”
“Yes, indeed. There is a long history of activism here in Occoquan, and my uncle embraced that tradition fully. Did you know that the Underground Railroad ran through here?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“It’s true. A history I am proud of, as a Republican here in Prince William County. There was a cell of abolitionists here in Occoquan, staunch supporters of Abraham Lincoln. They had a warehouse along the river, and it contained a secret storage room that was one of the stations. You know that terminology, don’t you?”
“A station was . . . what? A safe house?”
“Exactly. Railroad terminology was used throughout the network. Conductors would move people from station to station as they worked their way from slavery to freedom. From Occoquan, slaves would be put on boats in the middle of the night and taken across the river to the next station in Maryland.”
“I had heard about the Republicans in Occoquan, but not the Underground Railroad.”
“It has not made it onto the historical markers,” Jefferson said. “Maybe because some people still sing Dixie here in Virginia, and the Underground Railroad was a truly subversive organization. But I love to talk about it, because it was dedicated to freedom. The warehouse by the river, if I’m not mistaken, was situated exactly where your house now stands.”
Harley couldn’t b
elieve it. The Underground Railroad passed straight through my home? What are the chances that I would learn this at the exact time I’ve created a safe house for Omar? He felt the same sense of flow that he had experienced with the Ayads.
“But I’m not here today to talk about Occoquan history,” continued Jefferson. “I am concerned that Fatima Bayati does not have the financial resources she needs to mount a robust defense of her husband. I am aware that you visited Muhammad in jail.”
“Yes, I did,” responded Harley. “Just once, but I had a positive impression of the man.”
“Everyone deserves a fair trial,” said Jefferson. “Originally, I thought that the Bayatis might be interested in selling their building to me, as part of my plans to redevelop their section of Mill Street.” Harley had seen Jefferson and Abdul in the bakery, although he had no idea who they were at the time. “But since then, I have had a number of discussions with my partner, Abdul. We believe the time is right to help create a defense fund for Muhammad.”
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