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  The first woman finished her negotiations, paid the shopkeeper, and put several yards of cloth in her basket. The second woman flipped the end of her scarf in a flirtatious wave to the soldiers. Then they turned around and revealed their faces. Harley couldn’t believe who he was seeing. The two were Karen and Jessica, living in Eirenopolis.

  CHAPTER 9

  The summer slump hit Riverview Methodist on the Sunday after the Fourth of July. Interest in the new pastor was waning, vacation trips took people away, and the twenty-year-old air conditioner struggled to cool the sanctuary in the middle of a brutal heat wave.

  When Harley stepped into the pulpit to start the service, there were only a few dozen people in the pews. A few more trickled in during the first hymn, but it soon became clear that he would be preaching to a small crowd. He apologized for the warmth of the room, encouraged everyone to make themselves as comfortable as they could, and promised to keep his sermon short. He was especially concerned about an elderly woman in the third row. She was dressed in her Sunday best, not the lightweight casual clothes favored by younger church members. Harley worried that she would be overcome by heat and pass out in the middle of the service, which he had seen several times in his previous churches. Once, he watched from the pulpit as a woman fell over in the row right behind his wife, Karen. He was preaching on the healings of Jesus and had to move straight from “Jesus wants to heal us” to “Karen, please turn around and help Louise.” Most of the people in the church were confused but assumed that his request was somehow a part of his sermon.

  Fortunately, everyone made it through the service and then headed out quickly to find relief in places with better air conditioning. Harley greeted members at the door of the church, thanking them for coming and wishing them well as they stepped out into the summer sun and the hot, humid air. Dirk Carter was one of the last to leave, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “Harley, we have got to do something about that AC. This is no way to worship, unless you are going to do a sermon on the fires of hell!”

  Harley smiled and agreed that it needed to be fixed.

  “Of course, it will be expensive,” said Dirk. “New HVAC systems are going through the roof. I don’t know if the church members can afford it.”

  “Here’s an idea,” suggested Harley. “We announce a fund drive and say that it will start the next Sunday. On that day, we shut the system off entirely. People will be so miserable that they will pay anything to get some relief.”

  “Not bad,” Dirk said, smiling. “Then, next winter, we’ll shut off the heat and make an appeal for a new furnace. Gotta hit ’em where it hurts.”

  Dirk invited Harley to lunch at the American Legion. As the two walked toward the river on Washington Street, Dirk asked Harley if there was any debris accumulating around his dock. Harley said that he wasn’t sure, so they went to check. Harley was surprised by the quantity and size of the logs and debris that had floated downriver after a heavy rain the night before.

  “Those are like underwater mines,” said Dirk. “Nasty hazards. They lurk just beneath the surface, ready to damage your hull or break your propeller. You think you’re going to have a nice day on the river, and then bam—they come out of nowhere and hit you when you least expect it.”

  “Like most of life’s problems,” said Harley.

  “Amen to that,” agreed the old Marine. The two men pushed the logs and branches out into the current so that the river would take the debris away. After that, they headed to the Legion for food.

  The dining room felt like a walk-in refrigerator compared to the church, and the cool air was a welcome relief. Dirk and Harley were given menus by Jessica, who recommended the tacos.

  “They are not the best I have ever had, but not the worst.”

  They talked for a few minutes about the church as they sipped their drinks. Harley felt a growing affection for the old Marine and sensed that he was going to be the rare church member who turned into a real friend. Shifting the conversation, Harley asked, “So, how are the guys at the Legion?”

  “Same old, same old,” Dirk responded. “Had a funeral last week for one of the last of the Second World War vets.”

  “That group is getting so old. Hard to believe that the generation is almost gone.” Harley drew a figure on the condensation of his iced tea glass, and then asked, “How about that young man I met on my first visit—Will?”

  “Will Beckley,” said Dirk. “I don’t know. He’s always been serious, but he seemed particularly intense on the day you met him. He might be struggling with something, but I can’t say since I haven’t seen him. In fact, I don’t think I’ve run into him since the day you met.”

  “Any idea?” Harley remembered the pain in his eyes. “Could it be something from combat? Post-traumatic stress?”

  “Could be. Guys come back from combat with so many demons.” Dirk paused as though he was about to say more, then thought better of it. Harley sat back and waited, playing Muhammad’s game of being comfortable with awkward silences. Dirk spun his beer bottle a couple of times and took a drink.

  “Can I tell you something in confidence?”

  Harley nodded.

  “Remember I said that Norah Bayati was involved with an American? Well, I just heard a rumor that the guy was Will. He lives in an apartment building behind the Bayati bakery. People are saying that they saw him—or a guy like him—sneaking over to her room late at night.”

  “But how could he get to her room?” asked Harley. “Doesn’t the family all live together?”

  “Not Norah,” said Dirk. “She was the oldest, and a few years ago she moved from the family apartment to a separate apartment in the back. The top one.”

  Harley was struck by the fact that Dirk knew so much about the Bayati living arrangements but then realized that there had been a lot of talk about the details of their lives in recent weeks. Harley had learned that it was unusual for the daughter of an Iraqi immigrant to move out of her father’s house before she was married but surmised that the apartment was a cultural compromise. She had her own place, which was what young Americans wanted, but she was still under her father’s roof, which was what Iraqi parents would require.

  “So, has Will been questioned by the police?” asked Harley in a hushed tone.

  “Not that I know of,” said Dirk. “There’s no evidence, really. It’s just a rumor.”

  “That would be terrible if he was involved with her and killed her.”

  “You’re right,” said the Marine. “Personally, I don’t believe it. Don’t want to believe it. But if it turns out to be the case, it’s another good reason not to get involved with these people.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We shouldn’t get entangled with people like them—Iraqis, immigrants, Muslims. Bad things happen.” He took another swig of beer. “Speaking of entanglements, I heard you made a jail visit to Muhammad Bayati.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Harley, after taking his first bite of taco. “An officer from the jail called and asked me to come talk with him. They are concerned he’s been on a hunger strike.”

  Dirk arched an eyebrow, drained the rest of his beer, and then held up the bottle so that Jessica would bring him another one. “Who cares?” he said to Harley. “Let him starve himself.”

  “You know that won’t happen,” said the pastor, surprised at Dirk’s attitude. “They’ll get a doctor to force-feed him. But they would rather have him start eating on his own.”

  “We’ll all pay for it either way,” said Dirk, finally beginning to eat. “I just resent that you had to spend your time talking to him—time that I am paying for as a member of your church!”

  “Hold on, Dirk,” Harley protested, putting down his taco. “I can appreciate that you put money in the offering plate, but I am not your private chaplain. I’ve got to pursue my ministry as I feel called by God. Visiting prisoners is part of what I do.”

  Dirk might have been able to intimidate
previous pastors, but not Harley. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do. But I don’t like the idea of you—or anyone—giving aid and comfort to the enemy.”

  “You don’t know that Muhammad is an enemy. He is an American citizen and has worked in this town for what—twenty years? If anyone should have a beef with Muslims, it’s me. But I’m willing to consider him innocent until proven guilty.”

  “You’ve got a right to have a beef, Harley. More of a right than I do. If you can have a civil conversation with a Muslim, you are a bigger man than I am. But Muslim or not, I still don’t like the idea of you spending time with a guy in jail who has no connection to our church. For God’s sake, take care of your congregation!”

  “We’re going to have to disagree on that one, Dirk,” said Harley, returning to his tacos. “I’m going to take care of you and the other members of Riverside, sure. But I’ve got to do what I feel called to do.”

  Jessica put Dirk’s second beer on the table, and he immediately took a swallow. “Suit yourself,” he said. “But think about the message you are sending. Some of the guys here at the Legion might benefit from the church, but they are going to steer clear if they hear you are spending time with Muhammad. And how about the Ayads? You know who they are—the Coptic Christians who own the Gold Emporium? What kind of relationship are you going to have with them if you sympathize with a killer who is a Muslim?”

  Harley was about to respond when Jessica passed by the table and interrupted.

  “Cut it out, Dirk,” she said. “Harley is doing his job and you know it.” Dirk gave her a sideways glance. “He doesn’t lecture you, so don’t lecture him.”

  “Sure he lectures me!” said Dirk. “He is my preacher!” She moved on to another table, and he continued. “This stuff is just personal for me. You know that I was in Vietnam, and all the protests back home really got to me. And when Jane Fonda visited Hanoi and sided with the Viet Cong, that made me go nuts.”

  “Yeah, I hear you,” said Harley. “But I’m not siding with the enemy. I’m doing my ministry. And please don’t accuse me of not sympathizing with the Copts.” With the hint of a smile, he said, “Part of the reason I am your pastor is that I preached a sermon about the murder of Copts. You know, by the Islamic State.”

  Dirk took another swallow of beer and nodded. “I get it. The thing is, we are at war. It’s a different kind of war than we have fought before, but it is still a war. The Islamic extremists are trying to destroy us, both overseas and here at home. We have got to fight back, or we are going to lose our homes, our families, our way of life.”

  “I think we are doing that,” said Harley, sipping his iced tea. “I really do. The military has made good progress against the Islamic State.”

  “But how about here in the United States?” interrupted Dirk. “There could be a sleeper cell right here in Prince William County.”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Harley, “I saw the symbol of the Islamic State painted on the rocks across the river.”

  “There you go. You don’t have to turn on the TV to see that symbol. It’s right here. We don’t know where they are hiding, but we have to send the message that we will show no mercy to terrorists on our soil. Look, I don’t know if Muhammad is a killer or not. Don’t know if he is part of a terrorist plot or not. The truth will come out. But we have to communicate determination and strength, or we are lost.”

  “But don’t we have to be careful about not painting every Muslim with the terrorist brush?”

  “Well, yes,” admitted Dirk. “We are a country of law and order. But in a time of war, we have to err on the side of national security. In war, there is always collateral damage.”

  “Meaning what?” asked Harley.

  “Innocent people are going to die,” said Dirk. “It’s a fact of life, Harley. War is a dirty business, and noncombatants die. It is part of the price of winning.”

  Harley pondered that for a minute, trying to figure out how the deaths of Muslim bakers could be considered a legitimate part of a war on terrorism. Maybe if Muhammad turned out to be guilty of murder. Maybe if he or his family was part of a sleeper cell. Still, at this point, it seemed like a stretch.

  “Winning is important to me,” Dirk explained. “That’s why I voted for Trump. He knows how to win. Who did you vote for?”

  “That’s kind of personal, don’t you think? I thought we had secret ballots in this country.”

  “Sure, but what’s the big deal? The election is over and Trump is in the White House. It doesn’t make any difference at this point. I’m just curious.”

  “I voted for Hillary. Not enthusiastically, but I thought she had the right qualifications.”

  “But what about the email thing?” interrupted Dirk.

  “Yeah, that bothered me. But it was not a deal-breaker. What really impressed me was the way she spoke so clearly about her faith. You know that she is a Methodist, don’t you?” Dirk nodded. “I do believe that she has sincere Christian faith. She has spoken about the importance of taking care of the poor, visiting prisoners, and welcoming strangers. Now, I know that we were electing a president, not a pastor, but still it matters to me.”

  Harley spoke the truth, but at the same time he had to admit that the presidential election had been a small matter to him, coming so soon after the deaths of Karen and Jessica. Trump and Clinton dominated the news cycle for months, but Harley saw very little through the fog of his grief.

  “In any case, Trump won and I’m glad,” said Dirk. “But let’s move on. You know that Matt has been watching the Bayatis, right? Well, he used to be watching them. He’s now on to something else—that’s a different story. Anyway, I’ve been keeping an eye on them, especially the son, Omar. Maybe you’ve seen him around town.”

  “No, I don’t think I have,” said Harley. He wasn’t going to admit that he saw him, or someone like him, in a dream. “The mother and daughter, yes. But not Omar.”

  “Well, the family has a boat, and Omar has been going out in it. He works mornings at the bakery, then goes to school at George Mason during the day. Late in the day, I’ve seen him going out in the boat. Maybe he’s fishing, but I don’t know. He could be up to no good.”

  Harley was intrigued, knowing that Omar had been bullied in high school and hassled at the Legion. On the surface, he seemed ripe for terrorist recruitment. But he sensed that Dirk was being paranoid, and he didn’t want to fuel the fire. Plus, he had promised to help Muhammad by trying to get Henry Kim to write a story. Nothing good could come from encouraging Dirk to investigate a nineteen-year-old college student who had a dead sister and a father in jail.

  Dirk was a little surprised that Harley didn’t want to talk about Omar, so he leaned back, put a toothpick in his mouth, and said, “I’ll let you know if I see anything. Nothing is more important than keeping our community safe. You know what they say, ‘See something, say something.’ Got to be on the lookout for hidden threats—logs in the river, terrorists in the town.”

  “Yes, please do,” said Harley. “Keep your eyes open. But my guess is that the FBI has got this.”

  Dirk thanked Harley for the lunch and then invited him to come hear him play guitar at Maxine’s.

  “What?” said Harley, surprised. “You play guitar?”

  “Sure,” Dirk nodded. “And sing. Mostly country music. Old time stuff, Hank Williams and whatnot. Been playing for years.”

  “Well, I never would have guessed it,” said Harley. “You are a man of many talents. When do you play next? I’ll put it on my calendar.” He reached for his smartphone and realized that it was not in his pocket. “I must have left it at the church.”

  Dirk told him that he would be playing at seven o’clock on Saturday night, at the outside River Bar, and encouraged him to stop by. Harley promised to plug it into his online calendar, and the two of them headed out the door and parted company on Mill Street. As Harley turned the corner and walked toward the church, he ran into a couple unlocking th
e front door of the Gold Emporium. Must be the Ayads. He decided to introduce himself.

  “Good afternoon,” Harley said, offering his hand. “I’m Harley Camden, the new pastor of Riverside Methodist Church. I don’t think we’ve met.”

  The Ayads shook his hand and said they were very happy to meet him.

  “I’m Youssef,” said the husband, “and this is my wife, Sofia.” The two were short and heavy, with dark hair, light-brown faces and big smiles. They looked similar to one another, as people often did after years of married life.

  “We are just getting home from church,” said Sofia. “Would you like to come in for tea?”

  “No, but thank you.”

  “A least get out of the heat,” insisted Youssef, opening the door of the shop. “Let’s talk inside where it is air-conditioned.”

  Harley stepped into the Gold Emporium. It was an old-fashioned jewelry store, with framed pictures on the walls and glass-topped showcases across the back and the sides. Behind the back showcase was a worktable with a gooseneck lamp and large, mounted magnifying glass, where jewelry could be cleaned or repaired. A staircase ran behind the work area. Harley assumed the couple lived in an apartment upstairs. A few padded chairs were lined up across the front wall of the store, and Youssef quickly pulled three of them into a conversation circle.

  “Sit, sit,” he said to Harley, motioning to a chair.

  “So where do you go to church?” Harley asked when they were all seated.