"Thank you. You've saved my life."
Nadia smiled, blushing. "We are happy to help. But, tell me please, how did you arrive here?" She gestured to the wilderness around them. "You are an American woman. Not a soldier."
"My daughter was a soldier. When I heard she was missing in action, God told me to come." Or was it the devil?
"That is very brave."
April winced. "I'm doing it for me as much as for her. I need to see her, to know she is alive." To make amends.
Nadia closed her eyes for a moment. "My mother must be worried about me." She opened her eyes. They were golden brown, surrounded by thick black lashes. The ghost of a bruise darkened the left side of her jaw. Stress lines carved crevices around Nadia's lips. "If she is alive." Tears filmed Nadia's gaze, and she looked down at April's hand over hers. "If Daesh still has her, it's possible my escape will lead to her death."
April's heart beat faster. "I would take any punishment for my daughter's freedom, even just to know she lived. I'd help her in any way that I could."
Nadia shook her head, swiping at an errant tear. "It is all up to God."
"Yes." April squeezed her hand.
"All that has happened to me—it is so that I could learn." She chewed on her lip. "The prophet says that we create our own value. I can see that now."
Was that possible? That April decided her value? Not Bill, Robert Maxim…or even Joy. Not even Jesus? April's lips twisted into a small smile.
"You do not believe?" Nadia asked.
"I…I'm not sure. Doesn't God decide our value?"
"My father told me that our moral code—our religion—was the most important thing. He refused to become a Muslim, and Daesh shot him. He knew his value."
April nodded slowly. "So, my value is not based on anyone else? It's in a vacuum?"
"Yes." Nadia took a breath. "My father taught me to shoot a gun. He believed that I should protect myself and my family."
"It sounds like he was a good man." April's own father came into her mind for a moment. A tall, broad, handsome man; he'd worked as a landscaper for a women's prison, and knew what sin could get you. You don't want to end up there, he'd say. Follow the letter of the law, honey, be a good girl…Before stealing from Bill, only the influence of alcohol sent April over that line, into sin, into criminality. The briefcase of cash was the first thing she'd ever stolen.
It was gone now.
"My father," Nadia continued, "believed that I could protect myself. He also believed that if I didn't, then I'd be ruined."
"Ruined?"
"Yes, that is the right word, I think. Useless. Like trash."
April nodded, her throat tightening.
"My rape ruined me," Nadia said. "No Yazidi man will marry me. To them I am no good." She held April's gaze. "But to me, to God, I am not ruined at all." The girl's tone left no argument.
"I believe you." April squeezed the girl's hand. "Where are you going?"
"We are traveling, spreading her words."
"And how did you get her words? You've met this prophet?"
"Oh no, we've never seen Her. But her word travels easily."
She turned to one of the other girls and spoke to her in Kurdish. The young woman reached into her long cloak and pulled out a phone, handing it to Nadia. It looked so strange in this environment—gunmetal gray in a forest of natural hues and textures. The black-robed women were something from another time—the virgin wilderness a place where technology did not belong.
"You have service here?" April asked as Nadia turned on the device. Should she call Robert? No, he'd just try to send her back again.
She must find Joy on her own.
"No service. But we saved a video we were able to download after our escape. We watch it often. It is a good reminder of our calling."
The small screen filled with a cloaked woman. Everything, including her eyes, was hidden. She spoke in Arabic, and there were English subtitles. "I am Her," the woman said. "I am all of you. You are all me. We all follow the one true God, who has come to us, now, in this time of caliphate, to lead us to the Promised Land. Men and women are equal. But they will not know it—the world will not acknowledge it—until we do. We decide our own value." The woman touched a gloved finger to her temple. "I wear this burka to remind you that we are nameless, faceless, female. We are all one. I am Her. You are Her. We are all Her. I am your prophet, and this is our new beginning."
A low battery message came onto the screen and then a spinning spiral before it went blank. "What else does she say?" April asked, reaching for the phone. Nadia held it back.
"She encourages us to spread the word."
"Is she Muslim?"
"You can be Muslim, Christian, Yazidi… all religions believe in prophets."
"What is this prophet’s name?"
"She is nameless, faceless, Her."
April's body hummed, like she'd just had a shot of vodka. The dragon inside her settled, the power of this prophet calming it. "Her?"
"I am Her. You are Her. We are all the prophet. And we must all spread the word."
"May I join you?" The words popped out. April's heart filled with hope. Her path lay clearly before her. Her.
Nadia smiled. "You already have."
Chapter Twenty-two
Shaheer
Shaheer woke from the dream: mercury gray eyes, the dog's vibrating growl, sharp canines glistening…then that shot reverberating inside his head.
He woke to the hospital room, the soft beeps of machines, and scuffling of nurses.
Shaheer's hearing was slowly returning, but he'd never speak again.
Instead of anger or frustration, Shaheer just experienced a lightness—as if that shot was the leap off a cliff, and he had not landed yet. A sense of destiny—of peace—overwhelmed him.
Everything was as it should be. Allah had chosen his path.
He picked up the pad of paper and pen next to his bed and began to draw. An outline of the dog's profile, its mouth wide, lip raised as it snarled. Inside the profile he drew the woman as a silhouette.
Tiredness overwhelmed him, and he laid his pen down and closed his eyes, slipping back into sleep.
When he woke again, a man stood at the end of his bed. Cold blue-green eyes held Shaheer's gaze. The stranger had dark hair peppered with silver at the temples and the strong, lean build of a soldier.
"Hello," The Stranger said in accented Arabic.
Shaheer nodded a greeting and scanned the room. He was alone with this man. The Stranger wore all black, and as he came around the bed, Shaheer heard the familiar thunk of combat boots. This was not a doctor.
The Stranger looked down at the pad still resting on Shaheer's lap. "What is that?" Shaheer went to flip the page to hide his drawing, but the man's hand shot out and grabbed it. "Where did you see this?"
The boy wrote on the exposed clean sheet of paper. "Who are you?"
"Robert Maxim. I'm the man who found you. I saved your life. Now answer me. Where did you see this?"
Shaheer nodded, gratitude welling in his chest. His father had told him that a Western man saved his life. That Allah had provided for him. "In my dream," he wrote.
"This woman, does she have gray eyes?"
Shaheer nodded, staring up at the man. "You know her?" he wrote.
"She's alive?"
"I saw her in the woods."
"Your father said you found a woman and then a dog attacked you, and someone shot you."
"That's right. The woman was sick. Bandaged."
"Do you think she shot you?"
"No, it was the wolf."
"But you saw her face, her eyes."
"She opened them, right before the dog began to growl. She frightened me. I thought she was a spirit."
The cool blue eyes held Shaheer's gaze.
"What do you think of her now?" Shaheer's cheeks warmed, and he shrugged, turning away from The Stranger. "Have you drawn this before?" Robert asked, holding up the sketch.
Shaheer nodded, not looking up at Robert. Robert pulled out his phone and held it out to Shaheer. The screen showed a photo of a blonde woman, her eyes closed, laying in a hospital bed. It was the spirit. "Is this the woman you saw?"
Shaheer nodded.
"Thank you," Robert said, his voice low. Shaheer stole a glance up at him. Robert's eyes held the drawing, just the hint of a smile playing on his lips.
"Thank you. For saving my life," Shaheer wrote.
Robert read his words then flicked his gaze to Shaheer. Robert's eyes were so cold, like the stream water straight from the mountains.
"You're welcome."
He turned, taking the sketch with him, and left. Shaheer sat back against his pillows, that tiredness stealing over him again. The spirit's eyes came to him in the darkness behind his closed lids, bringing him peace. Assurance. All was as it should be.
Chapter Twenty-three
Robert
Robert sat in front of the cleric, Abu Hussein, the boy's drawing in his hand. Robert passed it over. The religious leader shook his head as he stared down at the sketch, his mouth a hard line in the soft swirls of his beard. "I've seen this around."
"Me, too."
In the three days since Robert talked with the injured boy, since April Madden disappeared into the ethers, the image of the wolf's profile with the woman's face within it had appeared in dark alleys and under bridges, hidden away and yet there. "They say she rose from the dead." The cleric looked up at Robert. "That she is a miracle."
"Yes. The first act of a new prophet." It sounded like something Sydney's mother would believe. If she was even alive. An injured, untrained, middle-aged woman alone in these hostile borderlands, she must be dead by now. Robert Maxim wasn't going to waste any more resources looking for her. He'd lost two good men already.
The cleric's dark eyes held Maxim’s. "A false prophet."
Robert forced his expression to stay neutral. "I just want to find her."
"You believe this is the woman you have searched for." He held up the drawing.
"Could be." Robert shifted, his bad knee aching from the crosslegged position.
The cleric's gaze fell back to the paper in his hand. "A follower of mine was murdered in his bed. His wife claims to be innocent. Says a wolf came in and ravaged him." The cleric raised his gaze, his eyes lit with anger.
"A wolf?" Robert picked up his tea glass and sipped.
"Yes." He held up the paper. "She claims a wolf took over her body. That it killed her husband. She was infertile and a sinner. Her husband, a good man, was forced to discipline her often."
Sounds like he got what he deserved. "Can I speak with her?"
"She is in prison."
"I can go to her."
The cleric ran a hand over his beard and pursed his lips in thought. "I believe that she must have sullied herself before marriage. That is why she could not conceive."
"Logical." Robert kept his voice flat.
The cleric nodded. Yes, so logical.
They were all nuts.
But Robert Maxim could use that. Beliefs were a powerful drug. And when you knew a man's beliefs, you knew how to control him. That's why this wolf woman's actions were so terrifying. She was supposed to believe the same things as her husband, as Abu Hussein. She was supposed to follow their strict interpretation of the Quran. But instead she was turning into a wolf and murdering her abusive pig of a husband.
"This is dangerous." The cleric lay down the paper between them. "We must end it." He picked up his cooled glass of tea and sipped. "We must find this false prophet and destroy her."
Robert cleared his throat. "I'm interested in the woman. I'll get her out of the country as soon as I find her."
The cleric picked up the piece of paper again. "The boy’s mother and father have told everyone about what he saw. The nurses and doctors are all talking about it. And this wolf woman," his lip rose in a snarl. "She is not the only female acting strangely. It's a disease. And it's spreading."
"But surely, they don't all believe this boy."
"More do every day. Remember, Muhammad went into the wilds and returned with the word of God. He could not write, only speak. And now this boy, he can only write. There is a symmetry there."
"That doesn't make it truth."
The cleric shook his head. "But the more people who believe, the more it becomes reality."
Robert's lips turned into a small smile. "Is that how it works?"
"In my experience. Yes." He looked grave, clearly concerned about the resistance brewing under his nose.
Talk of a new prophet. Women fighting back.
This woman in the cleric’s community killing her husband wasn’t the first woman to rise up... though she was the first to claim a wolf rose from inside her.
Rumors of slaves in Daesh-controlled territory fighting back, organizing and trying to escape, swirled around the country. Maxim had recently seen a video of ten women being executed after one such revolt. But was it because of this "new prophet" or simply the horrors of their enslavement that these women became bold enough to fight back. A mix of both, he suspected. Any person that desperate would be searching for something to hold onto. Something to believe in.
The Salem witch trials came into Robert's mind; the young female accusers believed that witches were controlling them, and those beliefs became true to the town. True enough to kill over.
Robert shifted again. "I would like to talk to this wolf woman."
There was a knock at the door, and the cleric looked up. "Enter." His guard, Abu Ahmed, came in, holding a tablet. "There is something you should see." The cleric looked at Robert and back to Abu Ahmed. "Mr. Maxim will want to see it, too. There is a new video by Abu Mohammad al-Baghdadi. He has made a proclamation about the new prophet."
The cleric waved him in, and the man set up the tablet. Robert picked up his tea, taking a sip to settle himself. This was not going to be good.
He needed the cleric to let him stay involved. They couldn't have all the men in the region hunting her. What if they found Sydney Rye first? She wasn't strong enough to defend herself yet. It had only been a few weeks since her injuries…and yet she'd managed to start a goddamn religion.
The video began. Robert recognized Abu Mohammad al-Baghdadi, the man that Zerzan had taken prisoner. He swallowed the tea in his mouth with effort.
She hadn't killed him.
Robert, through Dog Fight Investigations, had provided Zerzan with everything she needed for her assault on Daesh territory: weapons, vehicles, and intelligence. He'd never asked about her plans for Abu Mohammad al-Baghdadi, and she hadn't volunteered.
Robert didn't mind not knowing how she was torturing him, but here he was, looking perfectly healthy, making a video.
The YouTube video showed Abu Mohammad al-Baghdadi illuminated by bright lights, in a bare space with stone walls. His scarred face, the left half having been badly burned when he was a child, appeared serene.
"Hello my faithful followers. There is great news I have for you. There is a new prophet." Abu Hussein dropped his tea. "What!" he bellowed. The guard cringed.
"Our caliphate is working, and this is Allah's way of honoring our efforts. The Quran spoke of prophets coming to us, and now one has arrived. This prophet’s first miracle has brought a woman back from the dead. This prophet is preaching the true gospel."
He paused for a moment, letting that sink in.
"This prophet is a woman, and she is revealing the true words of the Prophet Muhammad."
Robert glanced at the cleric. His mouth was pulled down into a deep frown, and the hand holding his tea shook. They'd met seven years ago, and over the course of their relationship, Robert had watched Abu Hussein slowly and methodically maneuver himself into the powerful position he held. Robert admired his calm and quick mind…but he looked like he was about to lose his shit.
"This so-called prophet preaches women's equality." Abu Hussein's voice rose. "The women wh
o take up her mantel are killing men. They have no right. A woman cannot be a prophet! They are imperfect!" The cleric threw his tea, the cup smashed against the wall, shards of glass littering the carpet. "He is saying this under duress."
"What could they have over him?" Robert asked, staying very still and calm. "His life? Is he not a holy man? The Yazidi women Daesh holds refuse to change their religion for their freedom. Do you think that a man like him, a battle-hardened servant of Allah, couldn't hold onto his beliefs in the face of torture, or threats?" Robert gestured toward the screen. "He looks fine to me."
The guard nodded, agreeing with Robert, but the cleric knocked the tablet away. "He is a liar. And a coward. Set up the camera, Abu Ahmed. I must respond."
Robert stayed on the cushion as Abu Ahmed hurried out of the room. "Let me speak with the wolf woman."
The cleric shook his head. "For what?"
"I can help. We've always helped each other."
The cleric held his gaze, Robert breathed evenly. "I can't let this prophet or her miracle live."
Robert's heart thumped a little harder but he continued to breathe evenly. "I understand your position. If I find the prophet I will kill her."
The cleric cocked his head. "What about the miracle woman?"
"She will disappear."
Abu Ahmed returned with a camera and tripod, and the cleric scratched his beard. "You may speak to the wolf woman, but it will cost you."
The tension in Robert's chest eased. "Of course." Everybody had a price.
The small, cement cell reeked of urine, blood, and shit. The “wolf woman”, crumpled in the corner, her long dress stiff with dried fluid, had been beaten savagely, leaving her so weak that she couldn't get herself to the rusted bucket in the corner meant to be her toilet.
"Has she had anything to eat?" Robert asked the guard, who opened the door for him.
Huddled against the wall, the rise and fall of her breathing labored, she still managed to have a scarf over her head, though the veil had been ripped away. "Cover yourself," the guard barked at her.
In Sheep's Clothing Page 11
