Flock of Wolves

by Emily Kimelman

  We had to disavow her. Joyful Justice couldn't become the army of the prophet. It wasn't what we'd set out to do. It wasn't our role. Joyful Justice helped anyone who needed us. Not just women. And not because God told us to. No matter how much the message aligned with ours we could not borrow the prophet’s voice.

  The men's rights activists were having a field day. Saying that this Miracle Woman’s bloody rampage was evidence that the Her prophet was violent, that the goal was to kill men and upend the social order, not to bring equal rights to women.

  It would only get worse from here. This was going to hurt a lot of women.

  I texted Dan, telling him that I was monitoring the situation, but at this point I thought we should just stay quiet.

  The video would be cut up and turned into propaganda for Isis, for white supremacists, for chauvinist groups of all kinds…a violent woman was a powerful drug to these groups. She proved the necessity of their own violence, their insistence on oppression.

  A knock at the door stilled my fingers over the small keyboard of my smart phone. "Anita, you okay?"

  I needed to get him out of here.

  Standing up, I crossed the room and opened the door. His eyes flicked to the bed behind me, sending a hot blush sweeping over my body.

  "Are you okay?" he asked.

  "Yes, something work-related has come up. I need to be alone."

  "But, Anita. Can I help? Is there anything I can do?" He raised his eyebrows. He looked so sweet, and kind…and safe.

  I wanted safety. I hadn't let anyone touch me since the attack, and Tom's had felt right. Maybe…

  "I just…” My phone pinged again, the sound making us both look down at the screen. I tilted it away from his gaze.

  "What are you up to, Anita?" asked Tom, cocking his head, a glint coming into his eye—he was too smart, I'd never be able to hide my association with Joyful Justice from Tom. He had to go.

  "Nothing." My voice came out edged with anger. Who was he to question me, anyway? We were no longer a couple. We weren't even friends.

  I pushed past him and headed for the front door.

  "Anita, please. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just…I don't want to lose you again, not when I just found you."

  I kept walking, steeling myself against his words. Steeling myself against the urge to turn around and kiss him, to let him take away my worries for the night. To let him support and hold me.

  "I just can't, Tom."

  "Why not?" Tom demanded. We were in the hallway now. I took his coat off the rack and held it out to him. "Please, Anita, I'm begging."

  I shook the coat, trying to get him to take it, but he refused.

  "Tom, I need to work."

  He dropped to his knees, his hands pressed together in the position of prayer.

  "The only way you can conquer me is through Love, and there I am gladly conquered." He quoted Krishna from the Bhavagad Vita. He'd given me a beautiful copy as a wedding gift. Tom knew how much the text meant to me. He knew those words would spear me right in the heart.

  Tears burned my eyes, and my nostrils flared as I struggled to keep them inside me. He just stayed there on his knees, waiting for me to answer, not pushing, not leaving…just being.

  I couldn't get him involved. It would ruin his life.

  "Tom, you can't be with me. It's…" I dropped my hand, letting his coat go. It landed on the floor in a pile "It's impossible."

  "Nothing is impossible."

  I shouldn't tell him, but I wanted to…

  More of the Bhavagad Vita came back to me. The Gita is not a book of commandments but a book of choices.

  "I'm a member of Joyful Justice."

  "What?" His expression hardened.

  "That's right, Tom. That's why we can't be together. You can't be with a fugitive. You can't be with someone who's under investigation by Interpol."

  "Interpol knows about you?" His eyes narrowed—the lawyer in him coming out. "Then you need an attorney."

  "They don't have my name, but they could at any moment—they know I exist." I shook my head. Why hadn't he left yet?

  Tom stood up and stepped closer to me. "Anita," he whispered. "Let me…" He placed his left hand on my hip, and I stiffened, trying to fight the comfort that it brought me. He pulled me flush against his body, and I didn't push him away. I didn't have the strength. "Let me stay," he whispered, his lips brushing my forehead.

  "The mind is restless, turbulent, obstinate and very strong, O Kṛṣṇa, and to subdue it, I think, is more difficult than controlling the wind."

  Tom's touch stilled the storm inside of me. I tilted my head and pressed my lips to his, releasing myself into the quiet of him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Closing In

  April

  Cynthia, her eyes welling with tears, embraced me as I stepped off the stage. "You were brilliant!" she yelled over the cheering crowd. Bill was already back out there, encouraging them to donate.

  He was a master, and I needed to learn from him.

  Bill closed out the show, reminding his flock to sow their seeds and invest in God. "Put money in the collection plate so that it can come back to you tenfold!"

  He left the stage to crashing waves of applause. Sweat darkened his hair and shirt. When Bill passed me on his way to his dressing room, his scent washed over me—I'd loved that smell once, but now he reeked of greed to me.

  I stayed standing on the side of the stage and watched the house lights come on, watched the crowd gather themselves, and felt the energy drain from the space as they flowed out the doors.

  Cynthia tugged on my sleeve. "We should go. There is still work to be done. I've got the footage." We'd recorded my testimony, and we needed to go back to the hotel and work on creating a reel for me. If I wanted to spread the word, I needed to get on TV. To do that, I needed something to show producers.

  I ran my arm through Cynthia's, and we navigated through the bowels of Madison Square Garden and out onto the sidewalk. The streets were packed with people. Clouds hung low above us, glowing with the lights of the city. The buildings and bustling people seemed to soak up the light and energy of the night sky, taking on its brilliance and majesty, leaving the heavens dulled.

  The crowd from the show still lingered. They walked arm in arm, carrying swag bags and chatting excitedly. A couple spotted me and ran over. "You were amazing," gushed the woman, grabbing my hands. She looked to be in her early thirties, with owl-like glasses and mousy brown hair,

  I squeezed back. "Thank you."

  Her husband stood behind her, holding a tote bag with Bill's logo on it. "Can I get a picture please?" she asked.

  I nodded, surprised but pleased. A ripple of vanity passed through me…How was my hair? It didn't matter, I sternly reminded myself.

  We smiled as her husband snapped a photo with his phone and then they moved on. Cynthia squeezed my arm. "You got through to them," she said. "You're gonna change the world."

  "And you shall help," I told her.

  A man in a dark suit, a foot taller than me and wearing sunglasses even in the dark of night, appeared in front of us, startling us into a stop.

  "April Madden. Please come with me." He gestured to the street where a black SUV with tinted windows idled.

  My heart rate spiked. Cynthia pressed closer to me. "You're not taking her anywhere," Cynthia said, her voice wavering.

  "Please, ma'am, step into the vehicle. Both of you," Sunglasses said.

  Another man climbed out of the SUV and stood behind us, his cold, dark eyes shadowed under the brim of a baseball cap with HSI embroidered on it.

  "Who are you?" I asked, my voice firm, my faith straightening my spine.

  These men could not hurt me.

  "Homeland Security, ma'am. Please get in the car."

  "I'd like to see some ID." I unlinked my arm from Cynthia's and balled my fists at my side.

  Sunglasses reached out and grabbed my arm. I tried to step back, but Ball Cap was there,
and I bumped against him.

  Within seconds they'd dragged me over to the car. I tried to twist free, but it was like trying to break away from a vise. The back door opened, and I was pushed inside, Cynthia bundled in after me.

  Sunglasses got in next, and Ball Cap came around. When he opened the door I tried to climb out, but he pushed me back in.

  The four of us were squeezed into the back seat of the SUV, Cynthia and I practically in each other's laps. We merged into traffic and inched along toward Times Square.

  "What do you want?" I asked, opening my purse. "I'm going to call 911. This is kidnapping."

  Sunglasses took my purse and pulled it free; he didn't even have to yank.

  "Ma'am, please remain calm. You are in no danger."

  "That sounds like a boldfaced lie to me," Cynthia said, splotches of red brightening her cheeks.

  "We're investigators from Homeland Security, ma'am. We need to ask you some questions."

  "About what?" I demanded.

  "About your recent trip to the Middle East, ma'am."

  I clenched my jaw and sat back against the seat, wiggling my shoulders until I fit, determined to not be afraid. To be brave and have faith. The car moved through traffic, headed downtown. We eventually pulled up in front of a high-rise in the Financial District.

  The men climbed out, and Cynthia and I followed. Sunglasses took my arm, and Ball Cap kept a firm grip on Cynthia as they moved us through an empty lobby.

  They used keycards to call the elevator and then we descended. The doors opened onto a cement hallway that looked like it could survive a bomb blast. They moved us down the hall and into a bare room with two metal chairs and a table between them. An interrogation room.

  "I'd like a glass of water, please," I said, my throat dry and muscles tense.

  Sunglasses nodded and left us alone with Ball Cap.

  Sunglasses returned a moment later with a cup of water for me. "Cynthia McDaniels. I'll take you with me now."

  Cynthia's eyes found mine, and I gave her a small nod.

  No man could hurt us. We were soldiers of God.

  Cynthia and Sunglasses left, leaving me alone with Ball Cap.

  "You know my name, but I don't know yours," I said.

  He didn't even crack a smile, just remained standing by the door. I sat down in one of the chairs and put my water onto the table.

  Twenty minutes passed—I prayed, giving thanks to the Lord for the powerful evening, and assuring him that I had faith that whatever was happening was all a part of his plan. That I was prepared to pass any test.

  When the door finally did open, I was jerked out of my reverie and blinked a few times as the man entered and came into focus. He looked somewhat familiar, but I couldn't recall from where.

  He was handsome, with dark hair and eyes, tanned skin, and broad shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist. He wore a dress shirt and suit pants but no jacket. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing strong wrists and a gold watch.

  He smiled and took the seat across from me, laying a folder on the white tabletop.

  "Mrs. Madden. My name is Declan Doyle. I have a few questions I'd like to ask you."

  "What kinds of questions?" I said, my voice scratchy from my sermon earlier.

  "Your daughter, Joy Humbolt aka Sydney Rye, a known member of Joyful Justice."

  I straightened my spine, reaching out and taking a sip of water. There wasn't a question there, so I didn't bother answering him.

  "When was the last time you saw your daughter?"

  I counted the days in my head. "About two weeks ago."

  Declan Doyle smiled, his eyes brightening. "Is that so?"

  He opened the folder and pulled out a photograph, placing it in front of me. I leaned forward to look. There I was, wearing long robes and crouched over the body of Nadia, on the stage where she'd died. A shiver ran over my body. God needed to take her. It was the right thing. I mourned her loss but did not grieve for her.

  He threw another picture on top of it. My daughter, on that same stage, staring into the camera.

  "You saw her at the battle of Surama," Doyle said.

  "That's right." I nodded.

  "Do you know where she is now?"

  I shook my head. "But I know what she's doing."

  "Really, what's that?"

  "God's work."

  He barked a laugh.

  "Ma'am." He sat forward so quickly that I flinched. "Your daughter is one of the most wanted fugitives on the planet." His eyes glittered, and my heart began to beat rapidly. "And you're not going anywhere until you tell me where she is…" He held up a finger. "What she's up to…" Another finger. "And how I can find her." A third finger popped up.

  Suddenly I felt the weight of all the earth on top of us. I felt the pressure of the walls around me.

  I was a prisoner.

  Anita

  I met Angela at a bar in SoHo. It was all dark wood, candlelight, and martini glasses. She sat on a high stool, her tailored suit crisp even after a long work day.

  The Friday happy hour crowd jostled and swayed—people yelled over each other, gesturing with their drinks. I maneuvered through the crowd, each body pressing against me, sending shivers of fear over my skin. I breathed in the scent of the place—stale beer and spilled gin—reminding myself that I was in London. No one was seeking to hurt me. I was safe.

  Spotting me, Angela waved, her platinum watch glinting in the low light. She gave me a big smile and slipped off her stool to embrace me.

  Her perfume overpowered the other smells in the bar and I closed my eyes, taking her in. We hadn't seen each other in three years, not since I walked out on Tom and left the city. But we'd stayed in email contact.

  I'd lied to her.

  The way I'd lied to everyone in my life. She thought I was still a journalist, living in New York, working mostly as a freelance editor…that explained why my byline never showed up anywhere.

  "How are you?" She yelled over the rumbling at the bar.

  I nodded and smiled, "Good, good. You?"

  She bobbed her head side to side in an impression of me. She loved that Indian mannerism. An Irish girl whose skin was so white it was practically translucent, we'd met in college. She'd studied communications while I studied journalism so we'd had some classes together.

  She'd even taken me home to her family one Christmas. Their thick accents and even thicker sweaters warmed my memories. Her father, drunk and singing, his arm around his daughter, smiling at her. Angela had one of those families that hugged and laughed and loved all loud and out there.

  Angela waved down the bartender and raised an eyebrow at me. "What are you drinking?"

  I ordered a glass of Cabernet and Angela gestured to her glass, asking for another.

  "It's a Manhattan, in honor of your place of residence." She lifted it up to me before taking the last sip.

  We slid onto our bar stools, and she asked again how I was doing. Again, I told her good.

  "You're working at Finnigan, Inc. now," I said.

  She nodded taking another sip of her drink. "Yeah, the hours are hell, but the pay is amazing. Never would think the daughter of a sheep farmer could afford this, did you?" She held out her wrist where the platinum Rolex sparkled.

  I smiled. "That's great. I'm really happy for you. Anyone special in your life?" I asked.

  She did her head bob again, a small smile creeping onto her lips. "I've been seeing someone." She shrugged. "Nothing special. What about you? Tom called, you know. I told him where you were." She turned as our drinks arrived. I insisted on paying and then fiddled with the stem of the glass.

  "Yes, Tom showed up at my place last night." My cheeks heated, and I hoped the dark bar would hide my blush.

  "Did he? You know he's still madly in love with you. Poor man. I can't ever imagine why you left him in the first place. Rich, gorgeous, successful. What more do you want, Anita?" she said in a teasing tone of voice, but the question was really there.


  "I wanted to stand on my own two feet," I said boldly. She held my gaze.

  "And you couldn't do it standing next to him?"

  I shook my head. "No. I couldn't."

  She nodded, thinking it over and then turned back to her drink. I took a sip of my wine, and we sat in silence for a moment.

  "Well, I guess I get that. Maybe that's why I haven't met anyone special yet." She looked over at me. "But you know, Anita, it's not like he's trying to take your power." She paused, staring into her glass for a moment. "I think we women—" She gave me a sad smile. "We give it too easily. Our power, we just hand it over like it's nothing, not realizing it's not easy to get it back."

  I nodded. She understood. And her understanding unclenched something in my chest.

  "So..." Her voice had turned teasing. "You saw him last night? How did that go? You two always did have some pretty intense energy." She cackled at herself.

  My cheeks heated even further. "It's complicated."

  She leaned forward waggling her eyebrows. "Oh really, tell me more."

  She'd always been like this, teasing and fun. Taking nothing particularly seriously. She was a breath of fresh air to me. And I felt, with a sudden pang, how much I had missed her. How much I had missed these easy female friendships.

  I'd hidden myself away ever since the attack. Hadn't let anyone touch me. But more than that, I hadn't let anyone joke with me, play with me. I'd been so damn serious. And I thought that was somehow regaining myself. But the fact was that this was regaining myself. This easy drink in this crowded bar with an old friend.

  "So," I said, changing the subject. "Seen any of our other old friends around? I tried to get hold of Rida, but her number's no longer working."

  Angela's face fell and her gaze turned serious. "Oh, God, you haven't heard?"

  "Heard what?"

  "She went back to Syria, right before Isis." She turned away, her eyes shimmering. "I haven't heard from her. I'm afraid...I think she's probably gone." Her voice was barely a whisper.