Chapter 24 Chain Mail #2
“You do not have to live for me. I have lived for me. I am proud of who you are, so do not talk about my daughter that way.” Her tone is light but her eyes are hard. Aai shoves the Tupperware into my hands. “The only thing you’ve done that disappointed me is running away and not talking to me.”
I throw my arms around her, and she squeezes me tight. After a lifetime together, everything we need to say is conveyed in that hug. I love you. I’m sorry. I hope you understand.
There are a hundred protesters outside the clinic for the next two days.
But my uncles are here, too, and some aunties who heckle the hell out of them, and Aai in the mornings before she goes into work—I suspect it’s primarily so she can drop off a meal for me every day.
The protesters love to argue, because the moment someone argues, they’re basically saying the antis have a point of view worth engaging with.
The aunties, however, have absolutely no desire to engage with their arguments.
“Do your wife and children know you can’t even hold down a job?” one shouts.
“Look at him! You think that man has a wife?” another exclaims. “Does your mother know this is how you spend your days while she breaks her back to support you?”
The anti they’re targeting, a large man with facial hair and a bald eagle tank top, turns red. “I make six figures!” he shouts.
“They’re all just mad at these women for having sex, since they can’t have any.”
“We have plenty of sex!” one of the protesters shouts.
“With our wives!” another adds, trying to cover their bases.
I try not to laugh as I head inside. Or be horrified that the aunties are talking so openly about sex. Nobody is safe now.
There are a lot of protesters, and they’re annoying as all hell, but this extra contingent of volunteers has sufficiently neutralized them, and nothing too bad has happened yet.
Still, I feel a tugging sensation right under where my heart is, exactly as I have every time I’ve encountered some type of demonic interference, and right now, it’s insistent.
I think of Heera and Tara and Laila. Regardless of whether it’s magic or instinct speaking to me, I’m ready to listen.
I open a private browser on my computer, close my eyes, and take a deep breath.
My fingers start typing, and I pull up some of the extremist chat boards we follow for security reasons.
Our team hasn’t flagged anything specific lately, but I’m looking at them with different eyes.
The first two are duds. But while scanning the third, a place for gun nuts and survivalists who want to purge the earth of the spawn of Satan or some such, sparks fire in my brain.
It actually physically hurts, so much so that I clutch one hand to the back of my head. This is it.
I read a post from several hours ago, a call to arms against the murderous terrorists running Chicago’s abortion clinics.
It says that they must be cleansed in fire and blood.
It doesn’t explicitly name our clinic, but I know.
I know. They’re coming for us, and soon.
I screenshot the page and send it to our external security consultants, explaining my concerns and asking if they can send over a team for the next few days or if we should shut the place down.
There’s one other thing I can do while I wait. I can find Muya. I don’t have his number, but I have his magic. I stand and draw up the drips of my magic, then dance a simple tatkar. I think of Muya, of like calling to like. Find me, I plead. Find me.
My phone rings. Unknown number.
“I’m sorry,” I say before he can get out a single word. “I’m sorry. I was wrong. I have been extremely unappreciative of your assistance.”
“Were you bitten by an intelligence demon?” Muya asks.
“I just finally lifted the veil of ignorance.”
“You sound surprised.”
I laugh, and then remember myself. I contacted him for a reason. “I found a threat to the clinic online. I think they’re coming soon.”
“How?” All mirth is gone from his voice.
“I followed my instincts. Or maybe your instincts.”
Muya swears. “I told you to give in, but you wouldn’t. There’s no way I could convince you to at least stay away?”
“I can’t just protect myself. I can’t let everyone else get hurt. I was hoping you would know something, anything that could help me.”
“I’ve been keeping an eye on that office building since the night you and I went there. The whole building is bathed in magic now. There have been constant meetings over the last few weeks, but I’m not sure why.”
“If you’re sure that’s where they’re meeting, we could try going again tonight.”
“It’s risky,” he says. “We’d have to hide outside. It wouldn’t be safe to just attempt making ourselves invisible.”
“Okay.” My hands are shaking. “I’ll meet you when I’m done with work.”
“I’ll text you the details,” he says, and hangs up.
My laptop pings. The security team has emailed back a long form response that boils down to: This is a generic threat, not worth a response. No need for concern.
I tell Diane and Dr. Levy about the anonymous post anyway.
My last bad feeling ended with arson, and even though we don’t put much stock in superstition, they both take it seriously.
We go through the patient list and cancel everyone whose appointments aren’t time sensitive, reducing it to surgical abortions and out-of-staters.
It’s something, but it doesn’t feel like enough.
It never feels like enough. At exactly five o’clock, I race out of the clinic and catch the bus down Touhy to Edison Park.
Muya is waiting for me at the bus stop, looking grim.
“I don’t think this will tell us anything we don’t already know,” he says as we walk toward the building. When it comes into view, my mouth goes dry. “We can still turn back. You could run or beg for mercy and attempt to make a new deal.”
“Thanks, Muya,” I say. “But I can’t do that. I won’t lose the clinic, and I won’t give in.”
“I was afraid you would say that,” he says. “You women always do.” He sounds almost fond.
Muya takes my hand and covers me in a cloak of ignorance. We sneak all the way around the building to a window at the back. Inside, I can hear muffled voices, though I can only make out a phrase or two.
“Final phase.”
“Offer’s on the table.”
“The contractors are ready.”
I feel incredibly stupid for coming all this way.
Muya was right, they’re not going to go over the in-depth logistics of a demonic takeover in an office building.
These types wouldn’t resort to violence.
My phone pings, and I scramble to silence it.
It’s an email from JJ’s dad saying that he has lots of friends who run various nonprofits and would be happy to help me find something suitable.
It’s sweet, and I find myself smiling at how much JJ loves me even if she’s being a bit cowardly about the whole thing.
Muya tugs on my arm, and I realize the meeting has ended.
We dash around to the front and take cover behind the bushes.
I hope Muya’s power is enough to shield us as we take note of who exits.
The door opens, and a few people walk out into the night.
I think I might recognize a protester or two, but that’s hardly helpful.
The door opens again.
I wish there was a succinct word to describe the feeling of your world burning down, of your trust shattering into a million pieces, of wanting to let the water pull you under because you’ve been such an idiot.
Exiting the building, chatting lightheartedly with a man I vaguely recognize from a long-ago parents’ weekend at college, is my friend.
It all falls into place. JJ said that she came back home to help with the family business, but she never said what it was.
JJ tried to get me a new job, was occasionally hesitant about abortion, and worried about my mentioning the clinic to her family members at the fundraiser. JJ obfuscated her name.
I take a step forward, but Muya grabs a fistful of my jacket, holding me back.
“You know her?” he whispers.
“She’s my friend. She was helping me. She—”
“You can’t do anything right now,” he says. “Stay down. We’re in their territory.”
While we wait until we’re sure everyone is gone, I confirm my suspicions.
This time, I scroll to the bottom of the email from JJ’s dad to read his email signature.
Harry Perkins Fleming. When I Google “Fleming + Midwest Family Institute,” I get thousands of hits, including that quote attributed to Harry Fleming a couple weeks back.
I bet their family has shrines to Mitch McConnell and Samuel Alito in their house.
I let JJ into the clinic. I gave her complete access.
I may have doomed us. And yet, JJ is trying to save me before destroying everything I stand for.
Somehow, that makes it worse. What does it mean to be loved by someone like that?
I push the thought away. I have to warn the others. I text Diane, my fingers numb in the cold.
We need to lock Julie Perkins out of all systems and put her on a turn-away protocol
I have reason to believe she’s affiliated with some pretty serious anti groups
Better not to take any chances
Diane’s response is immediate.
:(
They truly have no shame!!!
Sorry baby
I’ll tell her not to come tomorrow until we work it out
My fingers hover over the keys as I stare at JJ’s contact. Every interaction we’ve had over the last six weeks flashes before my eyes. She was there the day of the fire. Chances are she set it. A swell of nausea hits me. But at least she doesn’t know that I know.
Hey! No need for you to come in tomorrow—another volunteer wants to swap shifts.
Let’s get an afternoon coffee, though?
By the time Muya has walked me to my apartment door, I feel like I’m splitting apart.
Even with the benefit of the past, I have followed Usha’s path exactly.
I have become the architect of my own destruction.
My feet stamp on the floor without conscious thought, and I pull out my phone and set my dance playlist to shuffle.
It spits out “Nagada Sang Dhol,” a decade-old, fast-paced garba song.
My body is already moving, clapping, and spinning, my hair flying free. And I see.