City of Peace Read online

  Harley sat in the kitchen of his townhouse, looking out the window onto Mill Street and waiting for visitors. He sipped black coffee and ate a danish from Auntie’s Pie Shop. Dirk and Matt Carter had promised to introduce him to the pleasures of boating the Occoquan.

  Harley had been worried that they would have to cancel their boat ride. A tropical storm made landfall in Louisiana and then moved northeast, dropping heavy rain and causing flooding throughout the South. Storms swept through Occoquan throughout the night, and Harley assumed that he would wake up to cloudy skies and a swollen river. But the opposite was true. The sky was bright blue and the river looked normal, with a slight breeze being the only vestige of the tropical storm. Thank goodness for inaccurate weather predictions, Harley thought as he drained the last of his coffee.

  As he put his cup down, he saw the two men walking toward his house. Dirk was looking up at his son, who stood a head taller, and it appeared that he was trying to make him laugh. Matt didn’t crack a smile. Although the younger Carter shared his father’s powerful build, he had a head of thick brown hair. If Matt hadn’t worked for the FBI, he had the movie-star looks to play an agent in the movies. Both men wore sunglasses, shorts and T-shirts. Dirk’s shirt said Margaritaville and Matt’s said Marine Corps Marathon. Dirk also wore an NRA-inscribed ball cap to cover his bald head.

  After introductions, they went to the public dock near the restaurant called Maxine’s. Harley asked Matt how long he had worked for the FBI.

  “Thirteen years, sir.”

  “And do you like it?” Harley asked.

  “Most of the time, yes,” Matt said. Harley waited for him to elaborate, but Matt looked ahead and kept walking, without saying any more.

  “Matt’s always been a quiet one,” said his more gregarious father. “Still waters run deep.”

  The roar of motorcycles quaked the town as a line of riders passed. Most of them appeared to be of retirement age, some dark skinned and others light and all with salt-and-pepper mustaches and beards.

  “Occoquan is a biker town,” said Dirk after they passed. “You’ll see a lot of motorcycles outside of Maxine’s at night. I suspect that this group is just out for a Saturday ride, and they are making a pit stop. Lots of Harleys—right, Harley?”

  Harley smiled. “Wish my name gave me some stock in that company.” Then, looking toward the water, he said, “Dirk, tell me about your boat.”

  “She’s about nineteen feet long; a Sea-Ray. She’s what is called a bowrider, which means that you have seating in the bow as well as in the stern. Inboard-outboard gasoline engine. Good for fishing, water-skiing, or just cruising around.”

  “Inboard-outboard?” Harley asked.

  “You know what an outboard motor looks like, right?” Dirk asked. Harley nodded. “Well, an inboard-outboard has the engine in the back, like the outboard, except that it is enclosed in a compartment with a seat over it. Makes for a quieter ride.”

  Matt walked ahead of them onto the public dock and stopped at the boat matching Dirk’s description. He climbed down a wooden ladder and got on board, put a key in the ignition, and pushed a button. Harley expected the engine to come to life, but nothing happened.

  Dirk looked at Harley and said, “Matt is running a blower to get gas fumes out of the engine compartment before he starts it up. Otherwise, you could start the engine and have a nasty fire.”

  Harley took a seat in the stern over the engine compartment and looked around. Matt sat in a swiveling captain’s chair behind the steering wheel on the right, and Dirk plopped down in a similar chair to the left.

  “Ready to get underway?” Dirk asked.

  Harley was surprised by how good it felt to be on the river. The sunlight shimmered on the water, and the deep green leaves of the trees along the banks made the river itself look green. A family of ducks swam beside them for a minute, and a fish jumped out of the water just a few feet from the bow. They moved slowly at first, passing under the Route 123 bridge as they headed east. Harley soaked up everything around him, letting the river work its calming magic on him.

  “This part of the river is ‘no-wake,’” said Dirk, “meaning you have to move slowly, running the engine about 1000 RPM. There are a number of houses with docks, and a couple of marinas up ahead. If we revved her up, our wake would cause all kinds of damage to the boats that are tied up. In about twenty minutes, we’ll be able to let ’er rip.”

  “No problem at all,” Harley replied. “I’m enjoying the sights.” They passed a channel marker with a nest on top, and he asked the driver, “Matt, what kind of bird is that?”

  “Osprey,” Matt replied without turning around.

  Okay, thought Harley. I’m not going to get a lot out of this guy. Shifting his attention to Dirk, he asked, “What other kind of birds do you see around here?”

  “Ducks, of course. Seagulls. Hawks. Herons. There are even some bald eagles, with a nest near the river.”

  Harley’s eyebrows went up.

  “Spectacular birds,” said the old Marine. “Keep your eyes open.”

  Motoring eastward, they passed the Occoquan Regional Park on the northern shore and saw several people putting red-and-orange fiberglass kayaks into the river. A man and a woman in their twenties were close to shore on stand-up paddleboards, trying to keep their balance. Dirk seemed to enjoy the fact that the woman was shapely in a bikini. In a minute, they passed the Lake Ridge Marina on the right.

  “That’s where I bought this boat,” Dirk said. “Good place, but they concentrate on selling new boats. I’ll take you down the river to Halliburton’s. It’s a mom-and-pop operation that has some good used boats. That’s probably where you want to start off, right?”

  Harley nodded. “Guess so.”

  Dirk pointed to a good fishing spot near the I-95 bridge and laughed about how he liked to wave to the commuters stuck in traffic in the lanes above, making them jealous. He asked Matt to tell Harley about the johnboat they used for their first fishing outings in the 1990s, but he didn’t get a bite.

  “I understand that Occoquan means ‘at the end of the water,’ but that’s not really true, is it?” Harley asked

  “No, there’s a good bit of water between the town and the Potomac River,” Dirk said. “A lot to see and a lot to do. The Occoquan River just keeps flowing, washing all the crap away.” Dirk’s words struck Harley as odd. The water all around him appeared to be clean and full of life, with no sign off human waste. Crap?

  They passed a marina filled with yachts and a riverside restaurant, and Harley was surprised to see the restaurant next to an industrial site with huge piles of sand and gravel.

  “That’s a materials plant,” explained Dirk. “Construction aggregate: Crushed stone, sand, gravel. The Occoquan is still a working river, you see, not just for bowriders and party boats. You’ll see tugs pushing large barges up to the plant, and then leaving with loads of materials to take to construction sites up and down the Potomac River. Maybe even farther.”

  Next to the materials plant was the Route 1 bridge, parallel to I-95, and then came a railroad bridge carrying commuter trains and Amtrak trains along a north-south route. A long freight train roared overhead as they passed beneath the bridge, and the loud clacking of wheels on rails drowned out conversation for several minutes. Harley had never seen highways and train bridges from the perspective of a river, and he was struck by how the birds and fish seemed to be flourishing under and around these manmade structures. Nature always finds a way, he thought. An osprey screeched from the top of a nearby channel marker, warning them to stay away.

  After gaining sufficient distance from the noise of the train bridge, Harley asked, “What are you hearing about Muhammad Bayati?”

  Matt glanced at his father but said nothing. Dirk paused for a second. “Not much. Only what I read online. Muhammad is still in Prince William jail. He’s got a lawyer, but all he has said is that Bayati is innocent and he looks forward to having his day in court.”
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br />   “That’s pretty typical,” asked Harley. “Right?”

  “I guess so,” Dirk agreed. “I’ve never heard a lawyer say that his client is guilty. Not at this point, anyway.”

  “But what do you think?” Harley pressed.

  Dirk spun his swivel chair and opened what looked like a glove compartment but was really a cooler. He asked his son what time it was, and the young man said eleven. “Close enough,” Dirk said. “Want one?” he asked Harley. When the pastor said no, Dirk popped the can open and took a sip.

  “What do I think?” he mused. “I think that most Muslims see us Christians as infidels. Many want to kill us. They don’t have the tolerance for other religions that we talk about in church. Sure, some are peaceful and law-abiding people, but they see themselves as right and us as wrong.”

  “That’s certainly true of the ones who killed my family,” said Harley. Matt stayed silent, keeping his eyes fixed on the river.

  “You know what I’m talking about, Rev,” Dirk said. “You’ve suffered worse than the rest of us. These Muslims see everything as good and evil, and they want to wipe out people they see as evil. So yes, I can see Muhammad Bayati killing his daughter if she did something that he thought was evil. These people have no sense of forgiveness, no sense of compassion. They don’t believe what Jesus says about turning the other cheek. If a family member does something bad and brings shame to the family, they take the sinner out!”

  Matt turned again. He seemed to be searching for the right words. “Dad,” he said, in a calm and measured way, “you know the investigation is still open. Don’t jump to conclusions.”

  “Look, son, you and I both know, whether Muslim or not, these killings are usually crimes of passion. I don’t think you have to look very far to find a suspect.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Matt replied, turning back toward the river, “but don’t assume that this is a religious thing. I’ve got a Muslim friend at the Bureau. A stand-up guy. He hates what terrorists are doing to his religion.”

  “How long has he been here?” asked Dirk.

  “He was born here.”

  “Well, there you go. He’s an American Muslim, not a Muslim American. He’s not like these immigrants who are bringing their jihad to America.”

  “Whatever,” said Matt, keeping his eyes on the river.

  “Personally, I think most Muslims in the US are good people,” Harley offered. “But some get frustrated and are easily radicalized. Think of the Boston Marathon bombers. Or the guy who shot up the nightclub in Orlando. Or the young man who set off bombs in New Jersey and New York last year. Or this week’s bombing in Brussels. That hit close to home.”

  “I bet it did,” Dirk nodded. “I hate what those bombers did to your wife and daughter.”

  “That New Jersey kid worked in the family chicken joint,” recalled Harley. “Played basketball with his buddies. Tangled with other kids in rap battles. Talk about all-American! Next thing you know, he is traveling to Afghanistan and Pakistan, and coming back as a changed person.”

  “That’s what radical Islam can do,” Dirk said.

  “We have got to defeat ISIS,” Harley said, “just like we defeated the Nazis in the Second World War. There is no way to make peace with them. Most of the time, I try to follow the example of Jesus, but Islamic terrorists make me want to take a page from the Old Testament.”

  “What page?” Dirk grinned.

  “Something from Deuteronomy,” said Harley. “Something like God’s instructions to the Israelites: ‘You must utterly destroy them. Make no covenant with them and show them no mercy.’”

  “Preach it, brother!” whooped Dirk. “Utterly destroy them! Show them no mercy!”

  Harley cracked a smile, feeling a sense of relief. Out on the water, he felt free to express himself, releasing some of the rage he had felt since the deaths of Karen and Jessica. Everyone wanted him to forgive, but in his heart he wanted justice. And now he had said it.

  “Yes, that is a word from God for sure!” said Dirk, raising his beer in a toast.

  “Guys, I need you to suspend your Bible study,” said Matt, turning his head. “We are about to leave the no-wake zone, so I’ll be revving our engine and planing.”

  Matt pushed the throttle forward, and in a minute they were moving at thirty miles per hour, shooting across Occoquan Bay and out into the Potomac. A strong breeze whipped across the water, creating little whitecaps, but the boat handled the waves well.

  “Should have warned you that there was a small craft advisory today,” shouted Dirk, smiling. “But don’t worry. Weather Service guys are always cautious.”

  Conversation was difficult with the noise of the engine and waves against the hull, so Harley sat back and enjoyed the ride. He felt unburdened, and without a tinge of guilt for his hatred.

  He thought about a recent therapy session where the grief counselor asked Harley if he were mad at God for what happened to his family.

  “I understand why some people would feel that way,” he said, “but I don’t. I’m mad at a lot of people, but not at God.” When the counselor pressed him, he explained that he had never understood God to be a divine puppet master, pulling strings to make people act in good or evil ways. He said that he believed in free will and in the freedom people had to choose good or evil, so his anger was directed at the terrorists who killed Karen and Jessica, the incompetent security forces that allowed it to happen, and the people around him who had no idea what to say or do. His rage was directed at people—not God. As far as he was concerned, God was off the hook.

  But at the same time, Harley felt a distance from God that he had never felt before. His daily prayers felt dry and lifeless, and leading worship services gave him no experience of God’s presence or power. He had always been lifted up by a service of worship, inspired each Sunday to march into the week with energy and confidence. But no more. Sundays were just another workday, and they left him feeling drained. His counselor suggested that Harley’s rage was pushing God away, making it hard for him to feel any inspiration, and Harley had to admit that he was probably right. He always felt the presence of God most clearly through the people around him and their acts of communal kindness and prayer and generosity and vulnerability. His anger was a fire that was driving people away, and he felt like a firefighter trying to keep small brush fires from exploding into an inferno.

  As they skipped across the water, Harley began to feel a strong connection with his boating companions. Dirk pointed to Mason Neck, the large peninsula that formed the western bank of the Potomac River, and shouted that it was the location of Gunston Hall, the home of one of the founding fathers, George Mason. He said that Harley could pull some enormous catfish out of the deep sections of the river around there. Stretching his hands out to four feet, he signaled the size of the biggest one he had ever caught. As the boat sped northwest, Dirk said that they were entering Gunston Cove, which bordered Mason Neck on the north and spilled into the Potomac. Straight ahead was Fort Belvoir, a large Army post that was the center of intelligence operations.

  “Take us close to Belvoir,” Dirk said to Matt, “so that Harley can see the landing boats.”

  Matt powered the boat toward the fort and then eased back on the throttle so that it slowed and settled down into the water. He steered close to shore so Harley could see the boats anchored at the Belvoir dock. They looked like the landing craft used at D-Day, with large, flat doors on the front that could be dropped to discharge soldiers.

  “What are they used for today?” asked Harley.

  “Hard to say,” answered Dirk. “Modern battles don’t tend to involve storming beaches, thank God. But I wanted you to see them, to remind you of the bravery of our fighting forces.”

  “Amen to that,” said Harley, imagining soldiers facing withering enemy fire as soon as the doors opened and crashed down on the beach. He realized that violent conflict was sometimes necessary when facing an enemy such as the Nazis. Or the Islamic State.
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br />   “Let’s drop anchor here and have some lunch,” suggested Dirk. “Enough about terrorism and warfare. I’d rather talk fishing.”

  Dirk pulled sandwiches and cold drinks out of the cooler, and the three of them ate and talked about the fish that could be caught in the Potomac. Dirk described the bony fish called shad that could be caught easily, sometimes several on a single line, when the fish were running in large numbers. Matt told the story of an enormous catfish that he had once caught near Mason Neck, so heavy that it almost broke his line. Of particular interest to Harley was the snakehead, an invasive species with sharp teeth and a voracious appetite that had been dubbed “the Frankenfish.” A strange fish with an organ that enabled it to take oxygen from the air, it could survive out of water for short periods. Dirk said that when this Asian fish first entered the Potomac, people were worried that it would eat up all the local wildlife and take over the river, but fortunately state officials and fishermen had started working together to keep the population in check. Dirk himself had been part of a snakehead derby, catching one and eating it. After finishing his second beer, he said that he wanted to help to fish this particular species into extinction—just like the American military should do to the Islamic State.

  When they pulled anchor and started the engine, Matt asked Harley if he wanted to drive the boat. Harley took the wheel and was careful at first, but in just a few minutes he was pushing hard on the throttle and enjoying the thrill of piloting the boat at planing speed. He felt so free on the water, disconnected from the endless conflicts and concerns of life on land. As the wind whipped around him, Harley suddenly realized, Yes, this is why the Holy Spirit is described as a mighty wind. Feeling the spray of the water he thought, This is the cleansing water of baptism washing away my sins.