Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [23]
Jack had always been awestruck by the morning sun on the bay. On calm days, when the water was flat, even a dim sun behind clouds and fog lit the surface in a light show unmatched by any digitally equipped house on earth. Here, or even in the cabin, as Jack peered out he inevitably found himself wondering about God, creation, the meaning of life, and all those grand, universal questions. In that sense he was a spiritual man. He knew that life did not end when we died—he had seen too many deaths in Iraq to take the NatGeo view of things.
No, the earth was not created from a ball of fire—God had created the earth and the heavens. No, we did not simply “expire” like a fly or seagull. We were judged by God and sent into the next world, judged for the things we did and the things we should not have done. Judged, too, for the things we did not do and should have done, for the things we said and should not have said, for the words we should have said and did not say. He was content to maintain his belief in an invisible God and conduct his life accordingly, and he was sustained by this faith. And while Jack himself steered clear of churches or temples, save the occasional wedding or funeral, he deeply admired those who regularly worshipped.
He believed that honorable houses of worship were the moral compass that kept society on the right track. Sure, he had met some “religious” people who were outright bastards. But, so what, he thought. Religion itself, God Himself, were the eternals. Some religious institutions had their share of shame and fraud but for Jack they were first and foremost the core of the family, the bricks of civilization.
And except for one religion they all seemed to preach tolerance for others. All religions had gone through their phases of crusade and persecution, but only Islam still openly preached conquest and conversion, especially the radical Wahhabi sect. They were antiwomen, antifreedom, anti-America—
Jack sighed, bringing his mind back to the morning as he walked Eddie back home.
It was a beautiful day, the air cool and crisp, and he was looking forward to his daily bicycle regimen. He was not a triathlete like Maxine—who was already back in training despite the stitches in her skull—but he was up to ten miles a day now, and enjoyed the feel of the wind and fog in his face and the burn in his muscles that told him he was alive.
Jack pulled on his running shoes and went back outside. He had always liked to stay in shape. Some of the best weeks of his life had been spent at a private boot camp in Florida, where he’d trained in hand-to-hand combat and tactical survival skills. The camp had been run by former Israeli commandos, teaching Krav Maga, a form of martial arts developed by the Israeli defense forces and involving grappling, wrestling, and ruthless striking techniques. It had none of the dancelike grace of kung fu, jujitsu, or some of the other styles Jack had seen. It was simply deadly, and that was good enough for him. There was a saying at the camp, that “a man who cannot protect his belongings owns nothing.” That was true, and there was no greater confidence-builder than knowing that if your home were threatened, or you were up against the wall, you could snap a man’s neck in a second or two. It was a skill Jack hoped he would never have to put to the test.
All of these thoughts instantly vacated his mind, however, as he wandered over to the battered newspaper racks that lined the sidewalk near the clubhouse. That was where he always did his stretching exercises, but he froze when he saw the Chronicle’s headline framed in one of the windows:
SUSPECTS ARRESTED IN STREET BOMBING
The news was a complete surprise. The day before, he’d heard the first rumors of possible movement in the investigation, but he hadn’t expected something so dramatic so soon. And as he scanned the column of words beneath the headline, he knew he’d been right to be bothered by this case.
Dropping his coins in the slot, he grabbed the paper, scooped up Eddie, then went back to the Sea Wrighter