Randy Singer - Fatal Convictions

The crescendo only stopped when Allah raised his hand. “Al-shahid!” he bellowed, his voice filling the air like thunder. “Welcome to your reward!”

the present washington, d.c.

Hassan jerked awake and was half out of bed before he could gather his thoughts. Feet on the floor, he looked at the clock: 3:30 a.m. He felt his heart pounding, the images still vivid in his mind. His childhood dream had returned, as it often did the night before a gruesome assignment. But it had been different tonight, distorted by what lay ahead.

He had again been riding through the armies of infidels, wielding his sarif, severing heads. But this time, in the midst of the conflict, he had been surrounded by women and children, even infants. Nevertheless, he kept fighting until he felt the piercing arrows enter his body.

When he appeared before the throne of Allah, there was no chanting. Hassan bowed his head, mindful of the women and children he had killed.

Once again, Allah had dropped Hassan’s blood on the scales and placed the crown of virtue on his head. But rather than thundering his approval, Allah’s voice was soothing, his sad eyes registering his approval. “Only my loyal Hassan would complete such a difficult task,” he said tenderly. “Welcome to your reward.”

Hassan shook away the lingering images and turned on his light. He put on a pair of shorts and walked out onto the second-floor balcony. The parking lot was quiet at this hour, the night air muggy and thick. He took a deep breath and looked up to the heavens, asking Allah for courage and discernment.

The task ahead was more difficult than combat against armed adversaries. When the enemy took the form of a pleading woman or when collateral damage included small children, Hassan’s nerves and devotion were tested to the limits. He forced himself to look past the innocence in their eyes and into the darkness of their souls. Allah made no mistakes. Some were destined to die.

He went inside and got out a flint stone and his long, double-edged sword. He removed the sword from its brown leather scabbard. The blade glistened as it reflected the glare from the overhead light. He began stroking the edge of the sword with the flint, first one side and then the other. The sword was already razor sharp, but the task calmed his nerves and strengthened his resolve.

Perhaps Ja’dah Fatima Mahdi would repent and renounce her Christian faith. Perhaps Hassan could spare her life and deal only with Martin Burns, the infidel who led her astray. But if not, he could at least make her execution as painless and quick as possible.

He made a few more strokes with the flint.

The handle was made of steel covered with well-worn leather. The crosspiece was brass, polished so it reflected Hassan’s face like a mirror. Hassan’s name and a verse from the Qur’an were engraved on the upper end of the blade. Verily the promise of Allah is true: nor let those shake thy firmness who have no certainty of faith. Al Qur’an 30:60.

Alex struggled to get out of bed Saturday morning and didn’t make it to the Belvedere Coffee Shop until 8:15, fifteen minutes late for his weekly breakfast. He chained his beach cruiser to a bike rack in the parking lot and squeezed his way past the line of tourists that snaked out the door of the restaurant.

Inside, the coffee shop was cramped and narrow, about half the size of a typical Waffle House. Booths lined one wall, and about ten barstools faced a Formica-topped counter on the opposite side. The saving grace of the place was the wall of windows that surrounded the booths, giving nearly every diner a view of the beach. Alex had tried to talk his grandmother into other restaurants, but she was a creature of habit-greasy eggs, strong coffee, a big glass of orange juice, and a two-mile walk on the boardwalk. Rain or shine, unless Alex was out of town, he and Ramona met here on Saturday mornings.

His grandmother usually commandeered a booth, but today she was sitting at the counter. Her purse marked the stool next to hers as taken. She had on knee-length shorts, a T-shirt, and white sneakers. Her sunglasses hung around her neck on a sky blue Croakie.

“Sorry I’m late,” Alex said, giving his grandmother a quick peck on the cheek.

She told him not to worry about it, then let the cook know they were ready for breakfast. Alex almost always ordered French toast, and his grandmother had already placed the order. The place smelled like grease, and Alex tried not to watch the cooks manning the grill in front of him.

“You look tired,” Ramona said.

“I’m fine.”

“How much sleep are you getting?”

Alex dumped three creamers into his coffee and took a gulp. He didn’t like lying to his grandmother, so he decided to dodge the question. “I don’t need much.”

His grandmother shook her head. “Too little sleep makes you irritable, intellectually sluggish, and overweight.”

“Overweight?” Alex asked, his voice still husky. He had never had a problem with weight in his life, and he typically slept only about five hours a night. After a good day of surfing, you could count his ribs.

“That’s what they say.” Ramona neglected to mention who “they” were. “Of course in your case, metabolism overrides the normal rules of nature.”

Ramona pulled a folded copy of a page from the Tidewater Times out of her purse and placed it on the counter next to Alex. “I know you don’t get the paper, so I brought this for you.”

Alex glanced at the story on the local news page about Aisha’s case. He had already read it online, but he thanked his grandmother anyway. They talked about the case for a few minutes, and then Ramona gave him updates on various church members-who needed what kind of surgery, financial hardships for several others, compliments she had heard about Alex’s sermons.

But hearing the second-hand compliments also brought to mind the murmuring Alex knew was out there. In the months following Alex’s unexpected call to ministry, the church had grown at a somewhat dizzying rate, climbing from sixty to nearly ninety. But recently things had plateaued, then slowly declined, and the church members had started taking sides. The older women all loved Alex, as did the handful of teenagers. But a few of the deacons blamed the lethargic attendance on the absence of a full-time pastor. Alex wanted to get his grandmother’s take on the situation but decided he should wait until they got outside, where they could talk without sitting elbow to elbow with complete strangers.

After they finished eating and Ramona paid the bill, they left the restaurant for their Saturday morning power walk. They headed down the boardwalk toward the south end of Virginia Beach.

There were bikers and skaters sailing by on the bike path, runners grinding it out on the boardwalk, and lots of tourists lining the various hotel and restaurant patios and verandas. The heat was stifling, but there was a mild ocean breeze. Despite the conditions, his grandmother never messed around on these walks, keeping up a pace that might qualify as a slow run for some. She pumped her arms to complete her full-body workout.

For a few minutes, they walked in silence, and Alex considered whether to even broach his concerns about the church. He hated to worry his grandmother, and he knew his preaching was a great source of pride to her. But he also wondered if it wasn’t time for South Norfolk Community Church to hire somebody who actually knew what he was doing.

Though he had the bloodline for the ministry, Alex would be the first to admit that he became the pastor of South Norfolk Community more by accident than by calling.

His dad had been a pastor, a church planter who spent two or three years getting a church off the ground so he could pass the reins to a less-restive man. His last church had been in the suburbs of Las Vegas, the ministry cut short when a drunk driver had killed Alex’s mother and father on a rainy Friday night. Alex, an only child, was in sixth grade.