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  “Muslims?” asked Harley.

  “Sure,” said Tim. “They’re accepted around here. I’m guessing they do most of our birthday and wedding cakes. And anytime you need a box of cookies, Muhammad is your man.”

  “We’ll see,” Harley replied. “Where do they stand on the invasion of Iraq and what has happened since then?”

  “No idea,” said Tim. “Muhammad never talks politics. I don’t think they were fans of Saddam Hussein, but they can’t be happy about the instability of the country now. I don’t think that they are super religious, but who knows?”

  The two walked past a brewpub, a bridal boutique, and a puzzle store. Tim pointed out the town hall, which had been an Episcopal church until the congregation shrunk to sixteen and closed. The two looked up the hill at Rockledge Mansion, an impressive stone structure that was the site of the short-lived liberty pole of 1860. Finally, they reached River Mill Park, a beautifully landscaped strip of grass along the river with a bandstand and public bathrooms and a walking trail. At the eastern edge of the park was a tiny town museum and a pedestrian bridge over the Occoquan River. The town had good walkability, as well as some natural beauty along the river.

  “I’ve bent your ear enough,” said Tim, “but I’m happy to talk with you about Occoquan any time.”

  “Thanks,” said Harley. “You’ve been helpful. How can I reach you?”

  “That’s easy. I work part-time in the town maintenance department. Picking up trash, watering flowers, maintaining the gas streetlamps. You can leave a message for me at town hall. I’m not a social media or cell phone guy.”

  Harley stuck out his hand and said, “Good to meet you, Tim. I’m going to spend some time in the park, but I’ll see you again soon.”

  “Maybe in church,” said Tim as he shook Harley’s and turned to leave.

  “That would be great,” said Harley.

  Tim headed back into town while Harley continued west toward the end of the park. He sat on a bench overlooking the Occoquan River. Water poured over a dam and then danced down over rocks. Harley thought of his wife, Karen, and how much she would have loved the intimate feel of the town and the charm of the Victorian townhouse that would be his home. Although she thrived in the swirl of activities in the booming Sterling church, Harley guessed that that she would have appreciated Occoquan as a retirement spot. He felt unfaithful, being there without her.

  Five large black vultures were eating the corpses of a couple of fish. One pulled the guts out of a fish as the others watched. Will they be pecking on me next? Harley looked at the bridge and thought of his daughter. When Jessica was a child, they would have walked across a bridge like that together, and maybe fed the ducks in the water below. He had such tender memories of her childhood—pushing her in a swing, buying her an ice cream cone, watching her talk to an imaginary friend—and over the last few years he began to dream of doing similar things with grandchildren, after Jessica got married and started a family.

  Harley walked back to his car in the church parking lot. The shops and restaurants along Mill Street, which had been enticing an hour earlier, now looked shabby and uninviting. In another life, he would have been curious about the people who lived and worked there and interested in their lives. At that moment he only wanted to go home, back to Sterling. On Sunday at Riverside Methodist, he would have to fake some enthusiasm for his new congregation. The charm of the place was clearly no match for the force of his grief.

  But Harley was not the only one suffering in Occoquan. That night, Norah Bayati, the daughter of the baker, was smothered in her bed.

  CHAPTER 3

  For his first Sunday at Riverside Methodist, Harley used an old preacher’s trick. He offered the same sermon that he had given on his last Sunday in Sterling. He talked about Jesus being in a boat with his disciples on the Sea of Galilee when a great windstorm arose. Waves crashed into the boat, and the disciples called out in a panic, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” Jesus berated the wind and told the sea to be still—all of a sudden, the wind stopped and the sea became like glass. He turned to the disciples and asked, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”

  In Sterling, Harley encouraged the congregation to continue to trust Jesus through the time of transition that lay ahead for them, and in Occoquan he promised that Jesus would be with them through any storms that threatened to swamp their little congregation. In both churches, he reflected on the tumult of his own life, and how storms were not always conquered. He wished his own sea would become calm, but it was still tossing him around. Still, he said that he had discovered that Jesus did care that they were perishing, and he gave everyone the help they needed to survive. “Even a little faith,” he concluded, “can help us to face the future without being crippled by fear.”

  At Riverside, Harley’s sermon was backed up by the mighty black Jesus in the stained-glass window, calming the storm and his frightened disciples. But nothing could ease the upset in the people of the congregation, because they couldn’t stop thinking about Norah Bayati, the first murder in Occoquan in more than a century.

  Police tape surrounded the Riverview Bakery, and gawkers hovered. Members of the family had been taken to the police station for questioning, but they were not making public appearances, slipping secretly in and out through a rear entrance. The bakery remained dark. Two days after the murder, word spread that Muhammad had been arrested for the death of his daughter, who had dishonored her family.

  Harley heard all this at coffee hour in the church basement. Parishioners were welcoming to him, of course, since he was the new pastor and many were meeting him for the first time. But after introducing themselves, almost everyone commented about the Bayati family—how they seemed to be such a caring family, hard-working immigrants, lovely people, good Muslims.

  “It is just such a shock,” said one parishioner. Of course it is, thought Harley. Most went through life with a shadowy and cartoonish picture of death, but when death jumped out of the shadows, showing its true face, and violently snatched away loved ones—well, that was a high-voltage shock. It left people stunned and angry for far longer than they expected it would.

  One familiar face in the congregation was Tim Underwood, Harley’s tour guide from earlier in the week. At coffee hour, he hung back. “You preached a good sermon, Rev.”

  “Thanks, Tim,” said Harley, finally able to take a sip of coffee. “I’m kinda surprised to see you. A lot folks say they will come to church, and never do.”

  “Well, I liked talking to you on Tuesday. I wanted to see what you were made of.”

  “Nothing special, I can assure you.”

  “You know, I had no idea that you were the guy who lost his wife and daughter to the terrorist attack. You were all over the news last year, and I didn’t make the connection until you talked about it this morning. I am so sorry.”

  “I appreciate it,” said Harley. “And now you’ve got your own trauma here in Occoquan.”

  “Indeed we do. I wouldn’t say I knew the Bayatis well, but I saw a lot of them. Watched their kids grow up here, go to high school at Lake Ridge and then commute to George Mason for college. Typical immigrant family, with kids living at home until they get married.”

  “What do you think of this talk of an honor killing?” asked Harley.

  “Hard to say,” said Tim, putting a hand through his beard. “They don’t seem like super religious people, but maybe it is more of an Iraqi cultural thing. Even so, Muhammad always seemed so nice and gentle.”

  “But isn’t that the typical description of a killer? You know, the neighbors saying, ‘He seemed like such a mild-mannered guy.’”

  “Pastor, you’ve got a dark streak.”

  “Let’s keep that between us, okay?” Harley noticed a straggler from the congregation waiting for a chance to talk with him. “Tim, let’s continue this conversation, maybe this week, after I get moved in.”

  “No problem, Rev. Welcome to Occoquan.
”

  Harley waved to the guy in the corner of the social hall and motioned him over. The man was short and bald, in his mid-sixties and powerfully built from working out.

  “Pastor, I’m Dirk Carter, and I’ve been a Methodist all my life. Been a member here at Riverside since they opened the doors.”

  “Good to meet you, Dirk,” said Harley, shaking his hand. “What brought you to Occoquan?”

  “The military,” Dirk replied. “I was a Marine—or, to be precise, I am a Marine, since there are no ex-Marines. I got my start down the road at Quantico. Did a tour in Nam. Got moved around a lot, and kept cycling back to the DC area, sometimes assigned to Quantico, sometimes the Pentagon. When I got divorced in the 1980s, I bought a condo in Lake Ridge. It seemed central, and I like the water.”

  “Makes sense,” said Harley.

  “I liked your sermon,” Dirk offered. “It seemed real to me. Not nice and neat, with a happy ending.”

  “There aren’t many of those,” Harley said. “At least not in real life.”

  “That’s for sure,” agreed Dirk. “So, I was wondering. Since you’re a single guy—sorry about that, by the way—and I’m a single guy, would you like to get some lunch?”

  Church volunteers were cleaning up the coffee, punch and cookies that had been put out for his welcome reception. The room was almost deserted, and it didn’t look like anything else would be happening at the church that day. Sometimes, a group of church members would take a new pastor out to lunch on their first Sunday to help them to feel at home and answer any questions they might have. But no one had said anything about a meal. It was also Father’s Day, so many people probably had plans with their families.

  “Sure,” said Harley. “Lunch sounds great.”

  They walked around the corner to the American Legion Hall. They were serving lunch in the grill, and sure enough there were guys sucking down beers at the bar.

  “Hey, Jessica,” said Dirk to the woman behind the bar.

  “Hi, Dirk,” she replied. “Your table is all ready for you.”

  She grabbed a couple of menus and led them to their table. She was an attractive woman in her thirties with green highlights in her jet-black hair, arms covered with tattoos, and a cigarette tucked behind her ear. There were a lot of smokers and huge flowerpots full of butts right outside the front door.

  “Let this be my treat,” said Dirk as they studied the menu. “None of this stuff is healthy, but it’s all pretty good.” After they ordered a couple of burgers, Dirk continued to tell his story.

  “Like I told you at the church, I’m a lifelong Methodist. There are times when I think that the denomination is getting too liberal for me, but then I remember all the great people that I’ve known in the church. Mrs. Peterson, my Sunday School teacher, she was so nice to me. Reverend Smith got me through some tough times with my parents when I was a teenager. Chaplain Gerde, who kept me from losing my mind in Nam. All Methodists. So I’ll never leave.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Harley. “The church has been good to me as well. I was an Army brat, and we were always moving around. But just about everywhere we went, there was a Methodist church. It gave me a sense of stability.”

  Jessica brought Dirk a beer and an iced tea for Harley. Looking at her nametag, Harley felt an unexpected pang of grief. Although his own Jessica had looked nothing like the tattooed waitress, seeing her name caused him pain.

  Dirk said that he had been a fighter as a kid. “Always getting into scraps over stupid stuff,” he admitted. “Always had a chip on my shoulder. I was probably on my way to reform school, but then one Sunday I was sitting in church. Didn’t want to be there, but my parents made me. Reverend Smith read a verse I had never heard before: ‘I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.’ That got my attention. Words of Jesus, no less.”

  “What did that mean to you?”

  “It let me know that Jesus was not a wimp. Willing to fight for what mattered to him.”

  “Of course, Jesus did not literally use a sword.”

  “Sure. But it got me thinking more about what it would mean to be a Christian and a fighter. I came to see that the two were not mutually exclusive, and when I turned eighteen I joined the Marines. Eventually, I heard another verse that really became a key one for me. I think the chaplain said it in Nam. Again, some words of Jesus, ‘No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.’ I really saw that verse come to life on the battlefield. I swore to myself that I would show that kind of love.”

  Harley was impressed. “Dirk, I like the way you bring your work and your faith together.”

  “Well, I’m no saint,” he admitted. “Far from it. I need forgiveness, and I ask for it every Sunday. I know I screw up. My son says I do the right things for the wrong reasons and the wrong things for the right reasons.”

  As he paused to take a swig of beer. Harley saw a strange look in Dirk’s eyes—a flash of anxiety, or maybe even fear. But then Dirk changed the subject.

  “You’ve been listening to me. Now I’ve got a question for you. Even though I like the Methodist church, I don’t understand why it isn’t taking a stronger stand against radical Islam. Why do you think that is? I mean, these terrorists are the biggest threat to our democracy and our Christian faith in the entire world. I don’t have to tell you this—you’ve suffered personally. All I hear Methodist bigwigs talking about is Israel and Palestine, and our leaders are pretty damn critical of the way that the Israelis treat the Palestinians.”

  “True,” said Harley, “but don’t assume that Methodists are making a knee-jerk response. The denomination has refused to go so far as divesting from Israel.”

  “I should hope so!” Dirk replied. “Israel is the only true democracy in the Middle East, and we had better support them.”

  “I’m with you, in terms of supporting Israel. Their security is our security. But we cannot give them a blank check. I’ve been there, and I believe that the way they are treating the Palestinians is making the Middle East less stable, not more. Islamic terrorists feed off that stuff.”

  Dirk looked at his new pastor with grudging respect. Previous pastors had always tried to change the subject when he pressed them on denominational policies. He sensed that Harley was a straight shooter.

  “Yeah, I guess you are right,” Dirk shrugged. “In Nam, we always talked about winning hearts and minds. We’ve got to do the same today in the Middle East.” He looked up and saw a young man across the room and called to him, “Hey, Will, come here.” Then he turned to Harley. “Here’s a guy who did a tour in Iraq and tried to win some hearts and minds.”

  A man with short brown hair, sad eyes and sunken cheeks walked over to their table. He looked as though he had just lost his best friend. Dirk introduced him. “Will is one of the few young vets who is a member of this American Legion. Most guys his age don’t want to join. But Will has really gotten involved.”

  Will nodded and took a swig of beer. “There are some good men here.”

  “Pastor Harley and I were just talking about hearts and minds,” said Dirk. “What was the name of your Iraqi translator, and what happened to him?”

  “Nasim,” said Will. “Really understood our mission. Did everything he could to help us.”

  “And where is he now?” Dirk prodded.

  “Iraq. He wants to move to the US but hasn’t been able to get a visa.”

  “That’s not good,” Harley said. “Is he in danger?”

  “He’s in a tough spot,” said Will. “I don’t like it.”

  “Want to sit down?” Dirk asked.

  “No thanks,” replied Will. Harley saw pain in his eyes, real suffering. “I was just about to head out.” He took his last drink and left.

  “Good kid,” said Dirk, “but so serious. He’s really struggled since coming back from Iraq. He has bounced from job to job, and doesn’t have much of a social life that I know of.”

  “Speaking of Iraq,” said
Harley, “what do you think of the killing of this Iraqi girl here in Occoquan?”

  “I can’t say I’m really surprised. You can take an Iraqi out of Iraq, but you can’t take the Iraq out of an Iraqi.”

  “So you think that it was an honor killing?”

  “Looks like it. Rumors are, the girl was seeing an American guy, and that couldn’t have gone over well with the old man. Maybe she was pregnant. Who knows?”

  Harley chewed his burger and thought about what Dirk was saying.

  “You may be right,” he said, “but is there any hard evidence? No one around here seems to think that they were radicals.”

  “Yeah, it’s surprising, for sure. I’ve never been in Muhammad’s shop, and don’t know much about his family. I did run into him once when I was doing some shopping on Mill Street. He seemed like a pretty assimilated guy to me. I asked him about the Gulf War, and he just shook his head and said how happy he was to get out of Iraq. But, you know, Islam aside, cops are always going to look at family members first in a murder like this.”

  “Makes sense,” agreed Harley. “I can’t imagine the girl was killed in the course of a robbery. No one would break into a bakery looking for a lot of cash.”

  “Yes, it seems like a crime of passion. Could be a family member or a lover.”

  Harley remembered a retiree from the Sterling church who had come to him, requesting counseling for a personal issue. Harley hardly knew the guy but had heard a disturbing rumor about him. Apparently, his first wife had died under mysterious circumstances in the 1950s, when the two of them lived in Washington. The case had been all over The Washington Post, and although the man was investigated, he was never charged. He went on to have a successful career as a car dealer, and eventually retired and moved to Sterling. Then tragedy struck when his second wife fell down a flight of stairs in their retirement home and died of a broken neck.

  “Pastor, I’m in so much pain. I’ve lost so much. Can you help me? I heard about your wife and daughter. You know what loss is like,” the man had said. “I really need to talk with you, and only you. You will keep this between us, right? As a pastor, you are sworn to confidentiality, right?”