City of Peace Page 6

  When they returned to the Occoquan River, they docked at Halliburton’s and Dirk took Harley to meet the owner. By the end of the day Harley was the proud owner of a 2003 Chaparral, a twenty-three-foot bowrider.

  CHAPTER 6

  A week after Norah Bayati’s death, the smell of baking filled the air outside the shop, and then several loaves of bread appeared in the window. The hanging sign on the door was turned from Closed to Open, and the glass shelves inside went from empty to full with cookies, cakes, cinnamon buns, and scones. A steady stream of people walked by the shop, and some peered in the window. But not a single person entered. Nobody wanted to be the first to patronize a bakery owned by a killer. At the end of the day, all of the baked goods were removed from the window and thrown away. Not a single item had been sold. It was the same nearly every day for two weeks.

  Doris King of the Yarn Shop said to her partner, Eleanor Buttress, “This is ridiculous. I’ve known Fatima Bayati for years. Regardless of what her husband did or didn’t do, she deserves to make some money for herself and her children.”

  Doris was heavyset, with bright-red, curly hair and the tenacity of a pit bull, while Eleanor—rail-thin with short-cropped white hair—was as stubborn as Doris but much less aggressive.

  “I don’t want a single dollar from my pocket going to help pay for the defense of a man who would kill his own daughter,” Eleanor snorted while sorting out skeins of yarn. “Honor killing! Can you believe it? It’s barbaric. I won’t support any family that could do such a thing.”

  “But you don’t know Muhammad did it,” protested Doris. “What about innocent until proven guilty? Is there anything about the Bayatis that makes you think they would do such a thing?”

  “Well, they are Iraqis,” said Eleanor, not taking her eyes off the yarn. “And Muslim. And I know that Iraqi Muslims do such things.”

  “Yeah, well, remember Timothy McVeigh? He was an American Christian, and he blew up a federal building and killed hundreds of people. I don’t stop buying from American Christians because they do such things.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Eleanor, turning to arrange a display of knitting needles. And so Doris did. She marched down Mill Street, pulled open the door of the bakery, and bought a loaf of whole wheat bread. Word spread about her purchase, and a trickle of others began to patronize the Riverview Bakery once again. But business did not return to normal. The otherwise cohesive community of Occoquan was divided.

  Jessica Simpson, who was taking a break from her job at the American Legion, stood smoking on the Mill Street sidewalk. Since Harley’s townhouse was across from the Legion, they ran into each other frequently and usually stopped for a chat. The air that morning was crisp and cool, uncommonly so for the last day of June, and the sky was Carolina blue.

  “So, will you go into the bakery?” Harley asked. She took a drag on her cigarette and squinted at him, then exhaled slowly as she thought about her answer.

  “Sure, why not?” she replied, flicking an ash off of her tattooed arm. “They never did anything bad to me. And Omar used to work here at the Legion.”

  “Oh, really?” said Harley. He hadn’t heard that about the Bayatis’ son. “When was that?”

  “For about a year, when he was in high school. He bussed tables, washed dishes, took out the trash. I always liked him; thought he was cute.”

  “So why did he quit?” Harley asked.

  “He didn’t,” said Jessica. “He got fired. Some of the Legion guys gave him a hard time, talking to him in a funny accent and making jokes about Muslims.”

  “Like what?”

  “Stupid stuff. Bad jokes about camels and harems and suicide bombers and Osama bin Laden. One I remember is, ‘Did you hear about the Muslim party? It was a blast.’”

  “Pretty lame,” Harley said.

  “Actually, there was one that I liked,” Jessica recalled. “It wasn’t anti-Muslim, exactly. It dealt with the 9/11 terrorists. Remember how they expected to go to heaven and be given seventy-two virgins? Well, they got to heaven and ran into George Washington, who was really pissed off. Then they met Thomas Jefferson and James Madison and James Monroe, equally furious, and the line went on and on. Turns out their reward was seventy-two Virginians!”

  Harley smiled as Jessica continued. “On top of the joking, some customers would finish their meals and make real messes for Omar to clean up—chewing food and spitting it on their plates, squirting ketchup on the tabletop, nasty stuff.”

  “I can understand that they were angry, being vets and all.”

  “Yeah, but he was just an innocent kid,” Jessica responded, snuffing out her cigarette in the flower pot outside the Legion. “Anyway, Omar started showing up late to work, and when he was on duty he dragged his feet and gave the customers dirty looks. The boss gave him some warnings about shaping up, but he didn’t change his ways, so the boss cut him loose.”

  “What did he do?” asked Harley. “Go back to the bakery?”

  “Guess so,” said Jessica, knotting her black-and-green hair into a ponytail. “I think we kind of soured him on working with Americans. And that’s too bad, because I think this place was an oasis for him, especially at the beginning. One slow evening, I remember him telling me about the abuse he got in high school, being called names way worse than anything these Legion guys said. And once he got jumped by a bunch of thugs after school who accused him of being a terrorist. Beat him up pretty bad.”

  “High school can be rough,” Harley said.

  “At least here at the Legion he got some respect from the folks in the kitchen, and a regular paycheck. I was sorry he got fired. I see him once in a while from a distance, as he walks to his boat, but we never talk.”

  “Omar has a boat?”

  “Oh yes, he loves to fish. Talk about an oasis for him, out on the river. His family has a Sea Ray about the same size as the one owned by your buddy Dirk. Keeps it just a few hundred yards up the river from you, at a private dock just big enough for a couple boats.”

  “Interesting,” said Harley. “Wouldn’t peg the Bayatis as boaters.”

  “Hey, this is Occoquan. We have a river. Why would they not have a boat?” She playfully punched him on the arm. “Even you have a boat, preacher-man!” Harley shrugged and agreed with her.

  Harley walked west on Mill Street toward the River Mill Park. Passing the Riverview Bakery, Harley saw that the windows were full of baked goods and no customers in the store. Shadowy figures moved around behind the counter, probably Fatima and one of her kids. He looked at the upper stories of the frame building covered in green shingles, where the Bayatis lived. He guessed that the second story was their kitchen and living room, and that the third floor contained their bedrooms. Someone had told him that they also had renters, and he was curious about where they could live, so he walked around to see the back of the building.

  Turning the corner, he saw that the building was L-shaped, with a wing extending off the rear of the west side of the building. Wooden staircases connected balconies on each of the levels, giving access to a number of apartment doors on the back of the building. Harley guessed that the renters lived in apartments in the three levels of the wing, and then he tried to figure out which of the rooms had been the one where Norah died. Judging from the windows, there were numerous rooms on each level, so he was left without a clue.

  Returning to Mill Street, Harley saw a midnight-blue Mercedes Benz pull up in front of the bakery. Two men got out. One was a gray-haired man in his sixties in a finely tailored summer suit. The other was a man in his thirties with a shaved head and muscles straining against the fabric of his open-collared silk shirt. He appeared to be a weight lifter. The two of them walked into the Riverview Bakery, and Harley felt overcome by curiosity. He plopped down on a park bench and pulled out his cell phone, ostensibly to check his email. But although his head was down, he kept his eyes on the bakery.

  The older man spoke to a middle-aged woman in a head-scarf while the youn
ger one stood by the door with his massive arms crossed in front of his chest. A young woman was behind the counter with the middle-aged woman, but she kept her distance. The older man seemed to be doing most of the talking, and as time went by the middle-aged woman moved back and forth as if agitated, pointing toward the door for them to exit. The older man gave her a little bow, and then motioned for the younger man to exit. They quickly returned to their car and pulled away.

  Harley had no idea what he had just witnessed. The men were clearly not bakery customers. But at the same time, they did not seem to be law enforcement. Harley looked back at the bakery and saw the two women talking for a moment before they disappeared into a back room.

  Harley walked toward the river and saw a Sea Ray bowrider that looked very similar to Dirk’s. It was moored to a short dock big enough for just two boats. The dock appeared to be a remnant of Occoquan’s industrial days, because it didn’t have fancy lights, water hookups, or power connections.

  Returning to the street and continuing toward the park, he passed the old brick bank that now housed a beauty parlor, and the wooden theater that had been transformed into a brewpub. Birds called out from the trees lining the street, and Harley enjoyed the peacefulness until a pack of motorcycles roared up Mill Street. One of the riders pointed to the bakery as the pack passed.

  Harley was weary but also excited to get out on the river with his boat. He sat at home, making a list of what he needed for his trip and thinking about what he had witnessed at the bakery. His eyes grew heavy as his third glass of wine settled his restless mind.

  That night, Harley found himself sitting in the stern of his boat, going through his safety kit to make sure everything was there: flares, whistle, first aid kit. The sun was setting and turning the river red and gold. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight, Harley remembered. His slip was on the western end of the community dock, so he had an unobstructed view of the sunset. He stopped his safety check to look west and enjoy nature’s pyrotechnics. At that point he realized that he was trapped in his boat, with his feet somehow attached to the deck. Very strange!

  Suddenly, a group of men carrying duffle bags walked across the parking lot toward the Bayatis’ boat. The men appeared Middle Eastern, with brown skin and black hair. The first one on the boat was a young man, whom Harley presumed to be Omar Bayati, based on the description of the boy he had been given earlier. The others handed their bags to Omar, and then climbed on board, five in all. After a few minutes of preparation, Omar fired up the engine, untied the lines, and they began to move slowly down the river.

  As they passed Harley’s dock, heading east toward the Potomac, all five stared straight at Harley. Because he was trapped on the boat, he was terrified that they would see him and come after him. But something was strange: The men looked right through him, focusing their gazes on the shoreline. What a relief, thought Harley. So good to be invisible.

  Harley made mental notes of their body shapes, facial hair and other features. He was sure he would have to testify against them, so he tried to remember everything clearly. He was a little surprised by the fact that Jessica was right—Omar was, in fact, cute. A really fine-looking young man with a slender face and soulful eyes.

  Harley wanted to rush home and alert the authorities, but he remained trapped. He wanted to call the police, send up a flare or do something, but he couldn’t move. He was sure that people were going to die at the hands of these terrorists, just as Jessica and Karen had been killed in Brussels. And then, the sky to the northeast erupted in a red-and-yellow fireball—not the sun, not a set of fireworks, but an explosion. The light was followed by a roaring shock wave that overturned Harley’s boat, threw him in the water, and then he awoke.

  The room was full of sunlight that Saturday morning, and Harley’s sheets were soaked. He awoke feeling both unnerved and relieved. Rolling out of bed, he rubbed his face and thanked God that it had only been a dream. But he couldn’t shake the sense of dread that he might be living near a terrorist cell, right in the heart of historic Occoquan. Needing to clear his head, he threw on some clothes and left his house in search of a cup of coffee and some breakfast. As soon as he hit the street, he saw that the farmers’ market near the park was open.

  He strolled past the bakery and the hair salon and the brewpub. In the cul-de-sac that bordered the park, he saw a dozen white canopies and a crowd of people milling around. The day was unseasonably cool and the mood in the street was festive. Fathers pushed babies in strollers, mothers chased toddlers, elementary-aged children chased each other on the sidewalk, and mixed-race couples walked hand in hand. Little by little, Harley’s dark mood brightened.

  Harley saw that the Riverview Bakery was the first tent at the open market. Fatima and her daughter were standing behind a table covered with baked goods. He looked at the younger woman and tried to think of her name. Norah is dead, so this is who? Sarah? The two weren’t doing much business, although the crowd in the cul-de-sac was large. Harley didn’t want to buy from them, so he wandered to the right and began to inspect the fresh fruits in the first booth on the right side. Then he made his way around the semicircle, buying a cup of coffee at one booth, and a scone at another.

  Numerous conversations filled the area, but the chatter was suddenly smothered by the roar of six motorcycles pulling up to the farmers’ market. The bikers parked near the tent for the Riverview Bakery but stayed on their motorcycles and kept their engines running. These were not the harmless retirees who had rode through town last Saturday morning when he went out on Dirk’s boat. This gang wore black leather with studs and chains and helmets with black visors obscuring their faces. The motorcycles had no license plates, either.

  Most of the crowd ignored the bikers once their engines quieted to an idle. Children played and parents continued to shop. But Harley couldn’t take his eyes off them. His breathing quickened and his heart pounded. Three of the bikers stayed on their motorcycles and scanned the area around them, acting like lookouts. The other three got off their bikes and pulled tire irons out of their saddlebags and stormed toward the Riverview Bakery tent, screaming at the Bayati women.

  Harley felt as paralyzed as he did in the dream. Pandemonium erupted as members of the crowd closest to the bakery tent shouted and ran away, crashing into each other and knocking parcels to the ground. Fatima and Sarah Bayati ran into the park, covering their heads and crying for help. The motorcycle thugs smashed the bakery table with their tire irons, breaking the table in half and destroying the baked goods.

  The attack seemed to go on for an eternity, but it was over in a minute. A siren could be heard as the thugs roared off in a matter of seconds and were out of Occoquan, scattering in different directions before the first police cruiser arrived.

  Parents held tightly to their children, many people were crying, and some seemed to be in shock. A few ran up to the first police officer to arrive on the scene and tried to give a description of what had happened. The people who had fled into the park slowly returned, and Harley saw the Bayati women being helped by a large woman with bright-red hair. She had her arms around them and was trying to lead them to the police cruiser while offering them words of comfort. They were crying and trembling.

  Harley remained frozen in place. Looking down at his feet, he felt a burning sense of shame.

  CHAPTER 7

  Occoquan’s rocks were old. On both sides of the river, ancient formations rose above the water and gave silent testimony to the region’s history. They formed about 300 million years ago when the North American and African landmasses plowed into each other and created a supercontinent called Pangaea. The seam between these continental plates ran along the east coast of North America, with Virginia at the center, and the supercontinent remained stitched together for about 100 million years. Pangaea began to separate about 175 million years ago, creating the continents we know today, but it left behind formations such as the shelves of rock that stood on either side of the Occoquan River. Thes
e outcroppings had seen divisions between settlers and Native Americans, colonists and the King of England, the North and the South, blacks and whites, and now Christians and Muslims.

  Harley saw evidence of this particular division when he was taking a short run on the Fourth of July along a one-mile loop from his townhouse to the River Mill Park, across the pedestrian bridge at the western end of town, through the woods on the other side of the river, and then back to town across the Route 123 bridge on the eastern edge of Occoquan. Directly across the river from his townhouse was an outcropping of rock, hidden by trees along the river but visible from the road that cut through the woods. These rocks stood as tall and strong as Easter Island heads, as they had for millions of years, but they were covered with graffiti, the work of numerous spray-painting vandals. The markings made Harley feel discouraged when he first saw them, but on his morning run he spotted a new one that stopped him in his tracks and made him shiver—the mark of the Islamic State.

  Heat and humidity had returned to Occoquan after a few days of cool, dry weather, so Harley was panting and dripping with sweat as he inspected the graffiti. His shame after the attack at the farmers’ market was now replaced by fear for his own safety. His mind raced with questions. Who are they and how close are they—right here in Occoquan? What are they planning, and when will they strike—will it be today, a national holiday? He realized that the symbol on the rock didn’t necessarily prove that terrorists were at work. It could have been painted by the same sort of punks that put anarchy symbols on public buildings. Still, the discovery unsettled him, especially on the Fourth of July, the day he always felt the most patriotic.

  After crossing the bridge back into Occoquan, Harley jogged down Commerce Street and took a right onto Washington. He glanced over at Riverside Methodist Church and noticed that the wood trim at the front of the church was in desperate need of paint, and also that the front door was slightly ajar. What is going on? The building should have been locked for the holiday, but the door was open. Since the graffiti on the rocks had put him on edge, Harley imagined robbers or vandals or terrorists breaking in and doing damage to the church. He stopped his run and walked carefully toward the building, pulling out his cell phone and punching in the numbers 9-1-1, just in case. His heart pounding, he gently pushed open the front door, fully expecting to see a gang of thugs at work, or a badly trashed and desecrated sanctuary. What he saw was a gorgeous woman.