She slipped into a lavish terry robe, using a plush hair turban to wrap her wet hair. She sat in one of the sumptuous chairs before her dressing area and appraised herself in the mirror. She was lovely, not in the overly made-up, runway-model way, but more so as a patrician beauty of an elegant aristocrat. Her cheekbones and the lines of her face were perfect, as if some sculptor had fashioned them from purest alabaster, honoring some ancient beauty.

  She slowly turned her head to the left, then right, carefully gauging her profile to spot any flaw or imperfection. Satisfied she saw none, she folded her hands on her lap, closed her eyes, and began her nightly routine of internal ‘spiritual cleansing.’

  She began by imagining herself alone on a high promontory, far above a valley with the brilliant pinkish hues of a sunset behind her. She was clothed in a flowing, white gown that billowed around her as she stretched toward the sky, yearning for some faraway secret. She was alone, but not alone, for she could hear the lyrical strains of hundreds of thousands of women lifting their voices in a transcendental chorus of praise to her.

  She grew larger and larger as the voices of countless women filled her soul, filling her consciousness with an all-encompassing sense of worship. As their voices swelled, growing in adulation, she grew larger and larger until she was as Colossus, her feet astride, blotting out the splendor of the setting sun. Her glory was unmatched, the power from her body flowing out and sustaining the countless women all lifting their voices as one in praise of Inanna Laius.

  She was so absorbed with the unmatched exaltation that she did not notice the tiny cluster of storm clouds that gathered on the horizon. So enveloped in the moment of her ecstatic reverie, she was completely unaware of the thickening slate-gray clouds that swelled and swirled around her. She was oblivious until the crackling stitches of lightning shot across the sky followed by the thunderclap that shook her immense form to its very core.

  The angelic voices of the female choir took on another timbre, becoming shrill, piercing shrieks replete with the wail of banshees. The mad cacophony caused the massive Inanna Laius deity to cover her ears against the aural onslaught. The lightning bolts wound sinuously around her like electric boa constrictors.

  The storm pelted her with stinging rain that caused her flesh to sizzle, and her form began to shrink as surely as if she had swallowed Alice in Wonderland’s “DRINK ME” potion. As she decreased in size, the frightful embodiment of the storm-head increased. Inanna Laius watched in horror as the deific figure shriveled and desiccated, shrinking ever smaller as the storm clouds grew more massive and violent.

  Manifesting itself as a primeval force, the storm gradually took on the appearance of a monstrous face of an angry, justice-seeking Old-Testament visage. His eyes bespoke anger, disappointment, disgust, vilification, and pure hatred. As she watched in terror, she saw herself curled into a mewling, fetal shape on the crest of the peak. Lightning sent sparks of light and energy cascading across the storm head’s slowly-evolving features. Within moments it was clear that this was no anonymous, unidentifiable quasi-divine figure. It was rapidly morphing into a face she began to recognize. His forehead, nose, eyes, hairline, and mouth took shape as a being of whom she had intimate, first-hand knowledge.

  It was her father.

  The Father Storm God’s face seemed to boil and bubble and blister, like some horror show’s special effects. Its mouth began to roar, its volume and intensity not so much heard, as felt. Every atom of her being shook and quivered on a molecular level. The rain assailed her, assaulted her, ravaged her, causing inexplicable pain to shoot through every fiber of her being like tremendous electrical jolts. Pummeled by the unending rainstorm and the deafening roar of the Father Storm God’s shout, she began to scream, catching her breath, again and again, increasing its intensity until she achieved blessed insensibility. Mercifully, darkness and silence enveloped her.

  EIGHT

  “Ms. Laius? Ms. Laius, please!”

  As her eyelids quivered open, the dark storm-head had given way to a blurry, shadowy face. Instead of an omnipotent, masculine roar, the voice had been replaced by a softer, anxiously petitioning feminine voice.

  As her surroundings came into focus, she saw it was her maid, Anna, her brow knit in concern, her dark eyes betraying the fright consuming her. Inanna felt the woman’s soft hands supporting her neck, lifting her from the cool tile floor.

  “Ms. Laius, are you all right? You must have had a seizure! You frightened me!”

  The maid helped Inanna Laius into her chair, which had overturned with her when she fell. She took a washcloth and ran it under cold water, squeezed it and began patting her forehead and face. Laius swatted her hands away. “I’m all right. I-I think I’m just overtired is all.” She steadied herself against her dressing counter, attempting to draw herself up and present an air of self-control. She waved off the maid’s attempts to help her, preferring to push herself upright unassisted.

  Unconvinced, the young maid backed away, giving her mistress her personal space. “Yes, ma’am. Perhaps that is so. Your color was not good when I found you. Y-You were screaming and your eyes were rolled back in your head. Please, let me call the doctor!”

  “NO!” Laius shouted. “There will be no doctor! There’s nothing wrong with me! Perhaps just a dizzy spell!”

  Recoiling as if slapped, the young domestic nodded and stammered, “W-Will there be anything else, ma’am?”

  Collecting herself and smiling wanly, Laius shook her head, “No, nothing else. I’m fine. I’ll call you if there’s anything else.”

  The maid excused herself and turned to exit, collecting wet towels along the way.

  Laius lifted her head. “And… Anna?”

  “Yes, ma’am?” Anna turned to face Laius.

  Her gaze cool and efficient, her mouth a straight line, she said quietly, “There’s no need to discuss this with anyone. Is that clear?”

  NINE

  Laius sat with her hands on her dressing table for a long time. Her hands were pressed hard against its cool marble surface until, finally, she clenched her hands into tight fists, her knuckles white as she dug her nails into her palms. She exhaled loudly and relaxed her hands, lest she draw blood as she sometimes did in times of stress.

  She again picked up her brush and stroked her hair roughly, feeling its coarse bristles pulling her scalp as she raked through the tangles mercilessly. When she was troubled, she often would engage in a somewhat painful activity. It was her way of changing her focus from whatever was troubling her to the discomfort she created for herself, thus creating a situation over which she had control.

  Her reverie was interrupted as her mobile began to chime. She recognized that tone; she’d assigned it to her assistant, Celine Winters.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Sister Inanna. This is Celine.” She paused a beat, cleared her throat and continued, “Well… Of course, you know who it is. After all, you saw it on caller ID.”

  “I did. What is the purpose of your call, Celine? I’m a little busy right now. I’m preparing for bed. It is rather late. Is there something you need to tell me?”

  Celine pushed the words out in a mad rush, anxious to get them all out lest she be interrupted and dismissed by Laius. “Sister Inanna, I received a call from the booking rep for CNN’s morning news program, American Sunrise. They want to interview you in their New York studios for a segment they’re doing on the recent fitness center bombing in Atlanta. They want you to speak on the CDRS and its work with disaffected women around the country. They believe, as the spiritual head of the church, you’d be in an excellent position to address some of the issues put forth in Phoebe Washington’s manifesto.” Laius heard her take a deep breath on the other end of the line and hold it.

  Laius smiled inwardly at the thought of the young woman awaiting anxiously for her response. She absently brushed her hair again, this time more gently, as she pondered her response.

  “Well, that is… splendid!” Laius emphasized ’splendid,’ taking her volume up a notch.

  She heard Celine squeal, “Yes!” on the other end of the line, wincing at her high-pitched shriek. “And Sister Inanna? Monica Coleman will be handling the interview, and as you know, she is very sympathetic to women’s issues and is a strong proponent of advocating greater financial and social gender equality. This will be a slam dunk for you!”

  Turning her face to admire her profile, Laius allowed herself a moment of triumph. This was going to be her moment. The moment when CDRS stepped out of obscurity into the national limelight, taking its place at the forefront of cultural validation. No longer would CDRS be considered a ‘fringe’ group, merely featured in ‘puff’ pieces in local broadcasts. After her interview, she would be taken seriously, as a religious leader as well as a cultural spokesperson.

  “Thank you, Celine. I know you will take care of the necessary arrangements.”

  Breathlessly, Celine interjected, “Actually, Sister Inanna, CNN is handling everything. They took the liberty of making the arrangements to have a limo pick you up at 5:30 tomorrow morning to ensure you get to the studio in plenty of time for the broadcast. It’s only ten miles from your co-op, but a car and driver will make it so much easier.”

  Inanna imagined Celine on the other end of the conversation. She could see her plain, young face, eager to please, flushed with excitement at what she had been able to accomplish for her – her employer, mentor, and yes, her leader.

  “Oh, Celine, that’s excellent!” She let just the slightest touch of petulance creep into her voice. “Will you be there in the morning as well? To make sure everything goes well?”

  “Are you kidding, Sister Inanna? I wouldn’t miss it for the world! I may not even sleep tonight! Honestly, I’ll probably get there at least thirty minutes before you arrive to make sure everything goes smoothly.”

  “Thank you, Celine. I’d best go now. I need to get to bed if they’re picking me up at 5:30.” She paused before disconnecting. “And, Celine?”

  “Yes, Sister Inanna?”

  “Please know that I truly appreciate your excellent work. I thank you, and the Sisterhood thanks you.” She imagined the washed-out, earnest young woman listening intently on the other end, nervously twisting her hair between her thumb and forefinger. “Good night. See you in the morning.”

  Celine leaned forward on her kitchen counter, pressing the sweaty screen of her iPhone to her flushed face. Tears mixed with a rush of emotional relief that flooded through her.

  That went better than I could ever have hoped!

  TEN

  Celine sat for a long time at her kitchen counter in her small Brooklyn flat replaying her conversation with Inanna in her mind. There’s no question that Inanna tended to look down on Celine. In fact, Inanna looked down on just about everybody. Watching her work the crowd at the CDRS services and rallies was an altogether different experience than communicating with her in person. The dynamic, forceful personality on display at public gatherings was replaced by a neurotic, timorous woman who could, by turns, become a cruel, spiteful, well, bitch.

  Yes, Inanna was a card-carrying bitch, but she was Celine’s bitch. And she was going to ride Inanna’s white-robed coattails to fame, wealth, and power! Legally classified as a religious order after a lengthy and costly court battle, the Sisterhood received a steady stream of tax-free donations. The bulk of these donations that went into accounts which publicly claimed to be for ‘religious purposes’ were nonetheless used for personal gain.

  Not that Inanna needed the money. Her father, a wealthy Greek shipping tycoon, had kicked off a few years ago. Since Inanna’s mother had died shortly before, Inanna became wealthy overnight, the beneficiary of a significant inheritance. To hear Inanna talk about it, though, he would have left it all to cats if he hadn’t hated cats more than he hated her.

  Inanna’s mother was of Assyrian descent, and had been quite the beauty. Celine cast a look at her reflection in the toaster on the nearby counter.

  Yeah… lucky her.

  The old man didn’t like being married to a walking stress test, so he fooled around – a lot. Couple that with cold indifference to a wife and young daughter, and you have the perfect formula for the young girl who became Sister Inanna Laius.

  Even the wealthy have shitty family dynamics almost as much as less fortunate families like hers did. The only thing her old man had left her were scars people couldn’t see, both emotionally and physically. The physical ones coming just before Celine’s mother redecorated their bedroom walls with the contents of his skull before eating the shotgun barrel herself.

  Oh well. Better them than me.

  She opened the fridge and stared at the assortment of take-out containers on the shelves. Was it her imagination or did the one furthest in the back move of its own volition? She shook her head and glanced again, almost afraid to look. Nothing.

  Sighing wearily, she closed the refrigerator door. Her eyes glazed over as she studied all the takeout menus attached to the refrigerator, none of which appealed to her at the moment. She surveyed her apartment, which didn’t take long. A one-bedroom in a run-down section of Brooklyn still carried a steep price tag for a young woman who wasn’t overpaid by any means.

  Her rag-tag collection of furniture consisted of hand-me-downs and Goodwill purchases as well as pieces abandoned by others along the way. Some of the furniture carried an unmistakable funk, most probably from surface cleaning of one too many late-night party spills and upchucks. She shivered at the thought.

  She caught another reflection of herself in the mirror over her cheap pressed board dresser. Her thin, brown hair was disheveled and greasy and hung limply to her shoulders. She touched her face, and her skin felt clammy and sticky. Still wearing the stained sweats she’d changed into after being caught in an afternoon downpour, she felt more like a homeless person than the executive assistant for a woman who was the figurehead of the religion she’d founded.

  Celine had spent most of the day running errands for Inanna, and an inordinate amount of time on the phone talking with the booking agents for CNN. A measurable barometer of success there at least, she straightened her spine slightly, drawing herself up in the mirror.

  From the standpoint of what she’d accomplished today for Inanna, and by extension, herself, she felt like a rock star. Gazing now at her reflection, she felt lonely and overlooked, running like a rat in a maze, hopelessly scrambling for freedom, all the while doing someone else’s bidding.

  Her iPhone vibrated noiselessly, notifying her of yet another message thread posting on the CDRS message board. She tapped the screen and smiled slightly as she read the messages on the small screen. Another day, another several hundred angry women spewing online, with her to massage, stroke, and manage their psyches. She opened the freezer expectantly and found herself smiling at the treasure she discovered.

  Looks like it is going to be another busy night tonight. A night of stoking the fire and eating a quart of Ben & Jerry’s Urban Bourbon.

  It’s a good life…

  ELEVEN

  Tesar Arman scrolled through the app on his cell phone, studying the columns of figures, linked with various account numbers, each reflecting a particular aspect of his substantial financial holdings. He smiled. Considering his impoverished youth, he had done very well for someone who had endured such a bleak upbringing.

  Born in what was once known as the Soviet Union in the mid-1970s, Arman had been involved with various criminal elements throughout most of his youth and into his early adult life. His rise through the Russian mob was what some would call “meteoric.” A genius for using his ill-gotten gains to create incredible wealth in a variety of ways allowed him to fund a very successful criminal empire. Even after providing the requisite payments to his superior up the line, the remaining capital would make many of his peers (such as they were) quite envious.

  Success was measured in his amazing capacity to make incredible sums of money while eliminating potential rivals at a whirlwind pace. Hence, he was always on the lookout for those who were advancing up the food chain, neutralizing them before they became a threat. By doing so, he solidified his hold on his territory, even expanding it at an exponential rate. As far as his relationship with the cabal, as the Americans would say, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

  They sped along in Arman’s Jaguar XJ, his bodyguard/driver, Hadeon Savchenko, expertly navigating the afternoon traffic. He closed the app on his phone and glanced at his Cartier watch. “Mr. Savchenko?”

  “Yes, boss?” the thug replied, tilting the rearview mirror slightly so as to look into his employer’s eyes. Savchenko very much resembled a gargoyle, his brutish features more at home on a serial killer than a driver/hired gun. Arman wondered sometimes if he actually was a serial killer before he became his driver and watchdog. He seemed to enjoy that aspect of his job a little too much.

  “When we get to the hospital, please be certain that you are properly ‘equipped’ in the event of any unforeseen circumstances.”

  “Always, boss.” He grinned, displaying a smile consisting of several broken and yellowed teeth.

  Arman grimaced. “Mr. Savchenko, I do wish you would get your teeth taken care of. Do I not pay you enough that you can afford to repair those damaged teeth of yours?”

  Savchenko furrowed his brow, looking a bit hurt. “Of course, boss. You are very generous to Savchenko. I leave teeth as are to remind me of debt owed Flint Stryker. Savchenko owes a debt. Savchenko always pays his debts. When debt is repaid, Savchenko get teeth fixed. Savchenko look like Brad Pitt then.”

 

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