Harley got an “amen” and a ripple of nervous laughter. Most were not accustomed to call-and-response preaching in their orderly suburban church.
“So here is what I challenge us to do today. After worship, let’s walk as a group to the Riverview Bakery. Let’s walk as one body, as the Body of Christ, as the physical presence of our Lord in the world today. Let’s line up and support this business as a manifestation of the Spirit, as an act that shows the reality of our love.”
Looking out over the congregation during the closing hymn, Harley could not see Dirk. He didn’t want to lose a friend because of his call to action, but he felt strongly that he was being led by the Spirit of God, with the support of a large number of his church members. In fact, when he gathered with the congregation in the parking lot after the service, he was shocked by the number of people who were interested in walking to the Riverview Bakery. There had been close to a hundred people in worship, and Harley guessed that about seventy-five were ready to march. One white-haired woman even tugged on his sleeve after he gave the benediction, saying that she wanted to participate but couldn’t walk that far. She said that she would have her son drive her and drop her off at the bakery. Harley smiled. “Of course,” feeling proud to be her pastor.
The group began to walk north on Washington Street, filling the sidewalk and overflowing into the street. As they passed, Doris King popped her head out of the Yarn Shop and asked a church member what was going on. After learning about their destination, she called for her partner, Eleanor, to hold down the fort while she joined the procession. Turning left on Mill Street, they picked up Jessica Simpson, who was on a smoke break in front of the American Legion. And as Harley led the congregation toward the bakery, he was surprised to see Leah Silverman walking directly toward him, carrying a shopping bag. She was clearly amused and perplexed by the sight of her friend Harley leading a parade through the Town of Occoquan.
“Join in,” he said. “I’ll explain later.”
When they reached the Riverview Bakery, Harley was the first through the door. He greeted Fatima and Sarah, and said that his congregation was there to show their support and buy some baked goods. They looked around him at the crowd that was standing in front of the bakery and filling Mill Street.
“I hope we have enough,” said Fatima. “You are going to clear our shelves.”
“Good,” said Harley. “I’ll take two blueberry muffins. One for me and one for Ms. Silverman.”
The crowd was more than the Bayatis were accustomed to serving at one time, but they handled the group well. Harley and Leah took their muffins out of the shop to make room for others, and ate on the Mill Street sidewalk as the others inched toward the shop with the broken front window. There was police tape in front of the window, indicating that the authorities had responded, but the hole was covered with cardboard and the rock and glass shards were gone. Business was back to normal at the bakery, and with the arrival of the Riverside congregation they were doing better than ever.
Members of the congregation seemed to be enjoying the experience, and most stayed in the area to eat and talk, even the old lady who had been dropped off by her son. The crowd covered the sidewalk in front of the bakery, and most of Mill Street as well. Sunday afternoon traffic was sparse on the one-way street, but the church members stepped aside and opened a space when a car needed to pass. Harley described to Leah what had happened that morning, and how he had been inspired to ditch his prepared sermon and speak from the heart.
“You old bridge-builder, you,” she said.
The joy of the moment was interrupted by the revving of a motorcycle approaching on Mill Street. Harley peered over the heads of his church members and saw an unexpected sight—a rider in black leather, with studs and chains. His helmet and dark visor identified him as one of the guys who trashed the farmer’s market, and he seemed particularly interested in the damage that had been done to the Riverview Bakery. As he drove slowly along the street, members of the church stepped out of the way. If he wanted to look menacing, he was certainly succeeding.
Harley stepped into the middle of the street, directly in the path of the motorcycle. The biker hit his brakes. Harley stared straight at him, trying to see a face behind the visor. The biker revved his engine as a signal to clear the way. Harley refused to move.
“You will not pass,” said Harley gravely.
The cyclist revved even louder. He was clearly getting frustrated and turned to the left to bypass Harley. This time Doris King appeared out of nowhere, blocking his path with her big body. Then he turned right and Will Beckley was there, eyes still sad but standing with the full authority of the US Armed Forces.
One by one, the members of Riverside Methodist Church filled in behind Harley, Doris, and Will, blocking the entire street with their seventy-five bodies. Even the white-haired lady was taking a stand. Although they weren’t quite sure what Harley was up to, they trusted their pastor.
“Turn around,” said Harley to the motorcyclist. “You shall not pass.”
Quickly turning his bike eastward on Mill Street, he roared away with all of the volume he could muster. In a second he turned the corner and disappeared out of sight.
“Nice work, Pastor,” said Doris King, looking especially fiery. She was the only one besides Harley who sensed the connection between the biker and the farmer’s market attack.
“Thank you, Doris. I appreciate your support.”
Then Harley turned toward Will Beckley and thanked him for stepping in. “You are welcome, Pastor,” said the young vet. “I saw the crowd and wanted to see what was going on. The Bayatis mean a lot to me.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“I hate that someone put a rock through their window.”
“Yes, we all do,” agreed Harley. “Maybe it was the guy we just stared down. Hope the police catch him.”
Will paused a moment, and then said, “Pastor, would you have a few minutes this afternoon? I need to talk with someone.”
“Uh, sure,” agreed Harley. “How about if we meet in my office in one hour?”
“Sounds good,” Will said. And then, lowering his voice to a whisper, “It has to do with Norah.”
CHAPTER 22
The two men sat in the front pew of the sanctuary of Riverside Methodist Church since the air conditioning in Harley’s office had unexpectedly broken. The lights were low, the air was cool, and black Jesus looked down on them from the stained-glass window, silently promising to calm Will’s storm.
“Norah and I had a relationship,” admitted Will, his cheeks looking even more sunken than before. “We met in January and became serious very quickly. It was intense but completely secret.”
“Why was that?” asked Harley.
“We knew that neither of our families would approve, so we kept things hidden. Didn’t even call each other on cell phones. The only place we would meet publicly was up in Fairfax, on the Mason campus. In Occoquan, I would sometimes sneak into her little apartment late at night, but we had to be very careful.”
“Sounds difficult,” said Harley, “and frustrating.”
“Actually, it was kind of thrilling,” Will responded, lightening up for the first time. “We fell hard for each other, and every moment together was amazing. She was such a beauty, with intelligence and passion. She was so feisty—I once gave her a container of pepper spray for self-defense, and she was always threatening to pull it out and use it on me.”
“I’ve heard she had a great spirit. You must really miss her.”
“More than you know,” Will said, becoming somber. Sitting straight in the pew, he looked to Harley like a classic Roman soldier, embodying discipline, courage, justice. Harley was glad that Will had taken a stand beside him on Mill Street, and that such qualities existed in the Armed Forces. “I still cannot believe she is dead. I walk by her apartment and look up, expecting to see her. My life was terrible after I came back from Iraq; it turned wonderful when I met her, and n
ow it is terrible again.”
“I’m sorry. Losing her is awful, and having her die so mysteriously is even worse.”
“Yeah, I’m not sleeping well. I cannot stop thinking about her and wondering who killed her.”
“So you have no idea who did it?”
“No idea. I know that she and her father had a big fight when he heard the rumor that she was seeing an American. But she didn’t seem afraid of him. She always described him as a pretty gentle guy. So I don’t think it was an honor killing, like people are saying, unless he really flipped out.”
“Did anyone else know about your relationship?”
“Only my father. And that is totally my fault. About a week before her death, I was having dinner with my parents in Arlington. I had bought Norah a gift at a jewelry store up there, and was writing a card to go with it. My parents’ dog started barking to be let out, so I left the room to open the door for him. When I came back, my father had seen the card and said, ‘Who’s Norah?’ At first I wasn’t going to give him any specifics, but then I figured, why not? I’m a grown man. I can date anyone I want. So I told him all about her.”
“How did he take it?”
“He went nuts. Told me I’m better than that, and should only be dating my own kind. Said that Muslims are terrible people, and I should know that after fighting in Iraq. I fired back and said that he didn’t know what he was talking about, since she was better than any white girl I had ever dated. He said he didn’t want any mixed-race grandchildren, and I told him he better get ready for some. It was a nasty fight. You know, they say that Arlington is such a bleeding-heart, liberal place, but that doesn’t include my father.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“So, anyway, I told Norah about my argument with him, and she took it well. Said that we were just going to have to be strong for each other. We figured that it was going to be the two of us against the world.”
“Will, I don’t want to point fingers, but do you think your father could have been involved in her death?”
“I actually wondered that, too. He was so upset at the situation that I could see him coming down to Occoquan to take action. Not that I picture him as a killer, but sometimes arguments get out of control. People go crazy. But after she died, I found out that he was in Philadelphia that night. Some kind of business thing. So my old man is off the hook.”
Harley pondered this, and then asked what he could do.
“I’m not exactly sure,” said the young man. “I think I just needed to tell someone about Norah and me. There is so much suspicion in this town, so much fear. I was tired of carrying the secret around. So thanks for listening, Pastor.”
“Should I keep this confidential?” asked Harley.
“Not necessarily. I’m not talking with anyone about Norah, mainly out of respect for the Bayatis. I thought about going to the police, but then I realized I had nothing to tell them. No suspicions. No ideas about what happened. I was home with my roommates the night she died. But I’m thinking that the story of Norah and me is going to come out eventually. I’m okay with that.”
“I’m glad that this has been helpful,” said Harley, as the two of them shook hands. “Feel free to stop by any time.”
As Will turned and left the sanctuary, Harley suddenly understood the message of the Sepphoris ossuary—Will was a Roman soldier, leaving his coin in the grave of his Jewish lover. Over the barriers of time and culture and religion, love truly is stronger than death, thought Harley, and passion as fierce as the grave.
Harley had a dream that night that took him back to Sepphoris. He was standing in a field outside the city, and a flock of sheep milled around him in a grove of olive trees. The sun was setting, looking like a huge orange ball in the sky, and the glow of oil lamps began to fill the windows of the houses on the edge of town. A woman came into view, walking along the road toward the main gate. She was wearing robes and a scarf over her head, so he could not see who she was, but she was moving so quickly and gracefully that he assumed she was young. Then, striding out of the main gate was a young man in a tunic, with the distinctive sandals of a Roman soldier. He must be off duty, thought Harley, since he is not wearing a helmet or carrying any weapons. The two of them saw each other when they were still several hundred yards apart, and at that point they abruptly left the road and walked toward Harley and the flock of sheep. As would be true in any time and place, old Harley was invisible to them.
He could tell that their paths would eventually intersect, but they didn’t wave or nod or do anything to acknowledge each other. They passed Harley and the sheep, one on his far left and one on his far right, and he suddenly recognized the soldier to be Will Beckley. The two of them hiked over a ridge and descended into a small valley, still visible to Harley but now hidden from the people of Sepphoris. At that point they turned, ran to each other and embraced, and Harley realized that they were meeting secretly among the olive trees on the outskirts of town. The young woman pushed back her headscarf and Harley fully expected to see the beautiful Norah Bayati. Instead, he saw the face of his daughter, Jessica. For a split second, she turned to Harley and smiled, sending the message that she knew he was there, and was happy about it.
Waking slowly from the dream, Harley felt a sense of peace that he had not known for years. The morning light streamed through his windows, and he stared at his ceiling as he savored the knowledge that Jessica was alive and well—somewhere. Not in this world, of course, but in some eternal City of Peace. He turned over to see if he could sleep again but quickly discovered that he was awake for the day. Rolling out of bed, he dressed and left the townhouse to get an early start on his Monday workday.
He never made it to church, however. While walking up the street, his cell phone rang.
“Harley, it’s Dirk. I need to see you. Now. I’m on the pedestrian bridge.”
“Where?”
“The pedestrian bridge.”
“Okay, Dirk.” The location was odd, but Harley sensed that the need was urgent. “I’m on my way.”
He quickly turned and walked west on Mill Street. As he strode along, he thought of how Dirk had dropped completely out of sight, except for his ghostlike appearance in the church service.
The August day was heating up and Harley began to perspire as he passed the town museum and turned right on to the pedestrian bridge. A man stood alone in the middle of the bridge, high above the river, but strangely enough he was on the wrong side of the railing, standing on the eastern edge of the bridge and facing west. When Harley quickened his pace, the man turned and faced him. It was Dirk, looking grave.
“Dirk, what are you doing there?” asked Harley as he approached. “Get back on the inside of the railing.”
“Don’t come any closer,” Dirk said when Harley was within a few yards of him. He held on to the railing with his beefy left hand, and his right hand was in the pocket of his light windbreaker. Harley stopped.
“What’s wrong?”
“My life is over,” said the old Marine. “I have tried to be a good soldier, but I have failed. I need to do the right thing and end this.”
“What are you talking about, Dirk?”
“My honor is gone. I have nothing left to live for. I have to rectify my mistake in the Roman way.”
Roman way? It took a few seconds for Harley to figure out what he meant. “You want to kill yourself?”
“I must,” said Dirk, sounding more decisive than depressed. “I have thought about this for days. Here is what is going to happen. I will tell you the truth about my mistake, so that justice can be done. I will receive whatever absolution you choose to give me. Then I will pull my gun out of my pocket, discharge it into my mouth, and fall into the river.”
“Dirk, no!”
“This is the only way. I want no mess for anyone to clean up. The river will do its work. I’m sorry to do this to you, Harley. But it has to end this way.”
Harley took deep breaths to calm his pounding h
eart and quaking voice. “I am your pastor, Dirk. You can give me your confession.”
They had the pedestrian bridge to themselves, not uncommon for a Monday morning, and there was not a single boat on the river, as far as the eye could see.
Dirk shifted his grip on the railing and bowed his head. “I have always tried to do my best for my family, my community, and my country. I would do anything to ensure their security. That has always been my commitment.” He adjusted his right hand in his pocket, and Harley saw the outline of the handgun. “For the past few years, I have cared about nothing more than Matt and his success at the FBI. My own career was over, but his was not.” He lifted his head and looked Harley in the eye. “He told me that he was becoming involved with someone who could jeopardize his career—beautiful, black hair, someone close to him here in Occoquan.” He turned his head left, looking toward the Riverview Bakery. “Putting two and two together, I figured that it must be Norah Bayati.”
“Oh God,” said Harley. “No!”
“I drove over from Lake Ridge and went to her apartment late at night. I knocked on the door, and she opened it a crack. Since she didn’t know me, I figured I would scare her—I said that I wanted her to leave my boy alone. She started to close the door, so I stuck my foot in it. Used my shoulder to push it open. She got really nasty, quickly, and told me to get out. I said, ‘Not till I have my say.’ We were each pushing on opposite sides of the door, and she got mad and said, ‘You can’t tell me what to do. It’s a free country. I’ll see anyone I want.’ I pushed harder with my shoulder and knocked her away from the door. She spun around and went toward her bed. It looked like she grabbed something off of her nightstand. Then she came right at me and said, ‘We love each other. You can’t stop us.’ And then she blasted me full in the face with pepper spray.”
City of Peace Page 21