Defending Hearts

by Rebecca Crowley

  She surveyed the people around her with the same intense but largely unconscious instinct that had her locating exits every time she entered a room, a byproduct of years of combat-honed vigilance. Those nearest her reflected the audience more generally, which was one of the most diverse she could remember being part of. A couple of Orthodox Jews, several women wearing hijabs, a black woman wearing a West African-style dress, and a handful of white people ranging from a woman with long, beaded dreadlocks to the man directly in front of her who sported a crew cut and a hunting-camouflage jacket.

  Her attention snagged on him for a second, but not for any reason she could articulate. She took in his broad shoulders, his face tilted down, his thumbs tapping at his phone.

  She filed her reaction to his presence in the back of her mind and opened the program. In recognition of the Eid al-Adha holiday, the event focused on opening up dialogues about Islam in all its forms. The institute’s director would give the opening address, followed by a keynote speaker she hadn’t heard of—an Emory professor originally from Pakistan. In fact she hadn’t heard of any of the names on the list, except the third one—Özkan Terim, presenting a speech entitled “Muslims in the Media: When Private Faith Becomes Public Discourse.”

  She closed the program and pulled out her phone, distractedly scrolling through Facebook as she rehearsed, for the millionth time, the speech she’d prepared for this afternoon. It wouldn’t be as insightful or academic as any of those delivered on the stage, but as far as she was concerned it was by far the most important.

  She’d brushed off her mother’s words at Family Day that afternoon, but in the week since they’d echoed louder and louder in her thoughts. For the first time in, well, maybe her entire life, she had to admit her mom was right. She couldn’t see the future any more than Oz could, yet he’d been willing to gamble on their potential to meet it together.

  Then, on Thursday night, she was sorting through her closet trying to figure out what she could donate so her clothes would fit into the tiny dresser earmarked for her in Jasper. She dug out the plain, black clutch she’d bought for her senior prom and used for every formal event she’d attended since. She’d put it in the donation pile—she wasn’t likely to attend a black-tie event anytime soon—then picked it up again and opened the clasp to check she hadn’t left anything inside.

  A photograph was tucked in the lining. She unfolded it, then sat back to study the image.

  It was the formal photo of her prom group, taken when they arrived at the event, then printed and handed back as they left. She’d gone with three other couples, and the eight of them stood in an alternating boy-girl line, uncomfortably pressed together to fit into the frame.

  Something struck her as she looked at the photo. Not the fates of the other people with her, or the ill-advised early-millennium fashion, or even a pang of regret that she’d lost her virginity to the spiky-haired boy with his arm around her shoulder despite his refusal to commit to being her boyfriend.

  Instead she focused on herself, the faraway look in teenage Kate’s eyes. On that warm spring evening she had one foot out the door. She’d met with the Army recruiter, turned in most of her final high-school assignments, and part of her was already driving past the city limits without a glance over her shoulder. Senior prom was a formality, a box to tick, a line to draw across the page to end this chapter and open the next one.

  As Kate sat on the floor of her apartment she imagined telling that eighteen-year-old that one day she’d have the chance to travel to Spain with a smart, sexy pro athlete who thought she was smart and sexy, too.

  Her teenage self wouldn’t have been surprised, she realized with a jolt. She was confident, determined, certain her life held untold adventures waiting just around the next corner.

  Over the next couple of days Kate mused over where she’d lost that irrepressible, optimistic eighteen-year-old girl. Maybe it was during her first deployment—it took all of Kate’s energy to keep looking forward, to stay alive from one minute to the next. Maybe that girl had slipped off to the side.

  Maybe they’d lost track of each other in one of the bedrooms where she’d spent an unsatisfying, purposeless night with a man who didn’t want her enough for it to matter. Maybe that girl eased out of the room while Kate stared at the ceiling, wondering why she’d done this again.

  Or maybe they still held hands when Kate went to Saudi Arabia. Maybe their grip had loosened but not disconnected. Maybe that girl was yanked away once and for all by the angry mob, her flame doused by their anger, her voice lost amid their shouts.

  Kate barely slept the night before the Peace Institute event. She lay in bed and dug deep into her memories, trying to remember how it felt to be eighteen years old and full of hope. To be open and willing and wide-eyed. To be ready to catch whatever life threw at her. Firm on her own two feet.

  She wasn’t quite there yet, but as she tapped the screen to pull up Oz’s picture in the contacts on her phone, she knew how to get back.

  Of course she might be too late, but she had to try. She had to tell him how she felt. She would tell him she loved him, and pray that was enough—not only to get him back, but to reopen the heart she’d closed so long ago.

  The auditorium was so full people stood at the back, and there was a flurry of activity as the staff members carried in chairs and lined them against the wall. Grateful she’d gotten her seat when she had, Kate flicked through Oz’s various social-media accounts, automatically scrolling through the comments.

  As she watched, the feed updated with a new comment. Ausonius 70.

  Her jaw tightened as she tapped to another account. She refreshed the comments. There, at the top: Ausonius 70.

  She wasn’t sure whether it was intuition or sheer luck, but something prompted her to look at the man seated in front of her. His head was bent over his phone, his thumb busy.

  She opened another account, scrolled to the comments. The man in front of her stopped typing, put his phone away. She refreshed the page.

  New comment. Ausonius 70. Time-stamped one second earlier.

  It could be coincidence, but her instincts screamed otherwise. Every atom went on high alert and she perched on the edge of her seat, eyes wide, unwilling to blink in case she missed something.

  Did she have enough reason to act? She imagined the 911 dispatcher laughing her off the phone as she explained the emergency. Well, I saw this guy typing on his phone and…

  Doubt fought her hunch as she looked more closely at the man. She put him in his mid-forties, his brutally shaven blond hair showing wide patches of gray at the temples. He wore jeans and unremarkable sneakers, and hadn’t brought a bag or satchel as far as she could see. The hunting jacket seemed unnecessary given the hot weather, but then it wasn’t unusual for people to bring layers to air-conditioned venues like this one.

  The audience applauded to welcome the speakers as they filed onstage and took seats along the back, but she was so buried in her thoughts she barely noticed. She would be no better than Citizens First if she falsely accused this man. Who said white guys in their mid-forties who wore hunting camo couldn’t be interested in a scholarly event about Islam? Probably the same people who insisted all Muslims were hateful fundamentalists.

  But she couldn’t shake the nagging sense that she was dead right. That the man seated in front of her was the one they’d been looking for all along, and he was here to cause serious trouble.

  She watched Oz ease into the chair on the stage. In black trousers, a snug blue button-down and a gray blazer, he looked every inch the young academic he could’ve been—although the loafers-without-socks look gave away his celebrity, as few normal men would dare it. He hadn’t seen her, she didn’t think, his arms crossed patiently across his chest. As always he looked calm, cool and slightly aloof, and a rush of anger heated her nerve endings as she thought of anyone trying to hurt him.

&n
bsp; Her gut had gotten her out of plenty of scrapes during deployments. She couldn’t mistrust it now, with the stakes higher than ever.

  As the director of the institute took his place at the podium and began his address, she scrolled through her contacts to Detective Hegarty’s number. Deciding a call would be too urgent a reaction given the lack of evidence, she began tapping out a lengthy text message explaining the situation, admitting it might all be paranoia but wanted him to be aware regardless.

  She wasn’t listening to a word the director said in his pleasant, resonant voice, but a rustle in the seat in front of her snapped her attention up from her phone. The man slipped out of his jacket, revealing a white button-down shirt underneath. She could see the outline of the short-sleeve T-shirt he wore underneath and the faint suggestion of writing on the back, but when he leaned backward the chair obscured whatever was printed on the T-shirt.

  She returned her gaze to her phone, quickly reviewing the message before hitting send. Then she tried to listen to the director’s speech, glancing between the podium and the man in front of her. After a few minutes her phone buzzed in her hand. She opened the message from Detective Hegarty.

  I trust your instinct. Keep your eyes on him. I’m on my way.

  For a moment she sagged in her chair, drained with relief that she wasn’t losing her mind. Then she snapped to attention and did as she was told. She watched the man like everything depended on it—hell, maybe it did. And although the man did nothing more sinister than scratch his nose during the director’s speech, her inner alarm bells clanged louder and louder.

  He appeared to listen attentively, but he showed no reactions. He didn’t smile at the director’s jokes or nod along with everyone else when the speech became solemn. Though fairly confident he wasn’t a suicide bomber—she’d met a few in her time and he didn’t have that air, plus there was no way he could sneak anything under such a thin shirt—she didn’t like the way his jacket sat bunched around him instead of pooling on the seat, as if something stiff inside one of the inner pockets kept it propped up. Quickly she checked her phone—no more Ausonius comments since he’d put his away. So while the timing might have been a coincidence, nothing proved he hadn’t been posting them, either.

  Suddenly the man’s posture stiffened. Kate bolted to alertness, watching him keenly.

  Distantly she heard the director introducing Oz. “And for those of you who aren’t soccer fans, you may have seen his occasional contributions to our quarterly journal, most recently an editorial on progressive Islam in our winter edition. Without further ado, let me welcome a pillar of our interfaith community, Özkan Terim.”

  Applause warmed the room as Oz stood, shook the director’s hand, and took his place at the podium. Every one of Kate’s senses focused so intently on the man in front of her that she didn’t hear a word Oz said. The man had visibly tensed, and began unbuttoning the white shirt he wore over his T-shirt.

  Her heart pounding, she inched to the edge of her seat, craning her neck to look over his shoulder. He finished with the buttons and shucked the shirt off his shoulders, but sat back too quickly for her to see the writing on the back of his T-shirt.

  He remained still for a minute, his hands folded in his lap. Adrenaline surged through Kate’s veins, tightening her jaw and roaring in her ears. She didn’t dare look behind her to see whether Detective Hegarty had arrived. She wouldn’t spare a glance for anything or anyone until she was sure this man posed no threat to the love of her life.

  She choked back the sob that erupted unbidden in her throat. Goddammit, she loved Oz more than she ever thought possible. She couldn’t imagine living without him—the very thought had tears stinging the corners of her eyes. She would do whatever—whatever—it took to keep him safe.

  The man moved again, sliding forward on his chair. He was careful, quiet, as if deliberately trying not to draw attention to himself. Any normal person would simply shove off their extra layers or fidget at will, but his incremental movements filled her with suspicion.

  She narrowed her eyes. Every motion he made seemed slower than the one before. He leaned forward almost imperceptibly. Snaked his right hand across his lap to reach into the inner pocket on the left side of his jacket. Made a fist around what was inside and began to withdraw it. Leaned forward a tiny bit more…

  She saw it, and time lurched from agonizing slowness to stomach-dropping light speed. The writing on his T-shirt wasn’t writing at all. It was a symbol, and as he arched forward she made out every one of its thick black lines.

  A swastika.

  Her emotions shut down as her training took over. She flung her phone into the lap of the person next to her with the command, “Call the police.” Then she scrambled over the back of the chair and wrapped both hands around his right wrist. She caught his arm just in time to see the Desert Eagle semiautomatic handgun he was pulling from the pocket.

  “He’s got a gun,” she shouted, vaguely registering the thunderous sound of people leaping from their seats as she threw all of her weight in the opposite direction of his grip, trying to dislodge the weapon.

  The man heaved to his feet and she tightened her fists, twisting his hand so the weapon pointed toward the ceiling. He used his free hand to yank on her hair, grunting with the effort, but her focus was so singular she barely felt the pain.

  She would protect Oz, whatever it took.

  She took advantage of his proximity and jammed her elbow into his throat. He released her hair to cover his neck and she risked taking one hand off his wrist to use it to shove him off-balance and drag him to the ground. It didn’t work. He caught her palm on its way to his chest and twisted it mercilessly, forcing her to turn her body so he didn’t break her wrist, weakening her grip on the hand holding the gun.

  Fear weaved through her chest in icy ribbons. For the first time she considered that she might not be able to overpower this man. She might not be able to save the man she loved. She might be about to die.

  The chaotic sounds of the auditorium suddenly seemed louder, the noises of stampeding feet and voices raised in fear, and chairs tipping over. She kept the man’s arm pointing the gun skyward but she couldn’t for much longer. She hoped the police were on their way. At least she’d bought time for Oz to get out, even if she couldn’t—

  A strong arm wrapped around her waist and shoved her to one side, her fingertips brushing the butt of the gun as they slid off. She whirled in time to see Oz tackle the man to the ground and plant his knee on his chest, fighting to tug the gun out of his fingers. Panic stole her breath when she saw the man’s gleeful expression and realized what Oz couldn’t.

  He didn’t have to make his shot from a distance, now. His target was in point-blank range, and that realization fueled her back to her feet.

  She brought her sneakered foot down on the man’s forearm with as much force as she could muster, channeling every scrap of rage and fear and desperation into the strike. It worked—for a second. He released the gun, then threw himself after it. Oz clambered on top of him, trying to hold him back while going for the weapon at the same time.

  She started after him when someone grabbed her arm. She turned—a woman in a hijab was trying to pull her to safety.

  “I can’t leave him,” she managed, breathless and desperate, but the woman tugged harder on her arm and Kate realized she probably couldn’t hear her over the noise in the room.

  “Hurry,” the woman mouthed. Kate shook her head and tears welled in the woman’s eyes, clearly distraught at the possibility of leaving her behind. Panic, urgency and empathy warred for dominance in Kate’s heart, but she had no choice but to wrench free from the woman’s grip and shove her toward the door. The woman looked over her shoulder one last time before joining the running crowd, and Kate knew that if she died in the next few minutes her would-be savior would never forgive herself.

  That was incent
ive enough to—

  The gun went off, the crack of the shot echoing around the room momentarily silencing the shouts of the crowd, then amplifying them. Kate screamed as she spun around, her heart freezing in terror. Plaster rained from the bullet hole in the ceiling, cloaking everything in white fog. She made out two figures, one prone and motionless on the floor, the other raising the gun in triumph.

  She hurled herself forward, ready to kill the man with her bare hands if it was his body on top.

  Instead she collided with pure muscle, a chest she knew better than any other, a face she wanted to wake up to every morning.

  She breathed his name as his arms came around her shoulders. It was the only word she knew—the only one left in her vocabulary as sheer joy and relief loosened her muscles and clouded her brain in a fog of incoherence.

  “I don’t know how you spotted that guy, Kate, but if you hadn’t—”

  She shushed him, collecting her senses, dimly aware of sirens squealing outside and the bang of the auditorium doors slamming open to admit a stream of uniformed officers. Within seconds one of them had taken the gun from Oz’s hand and ushered them both out of the room. Kate looked back in time to see three other officers crouched over the man’s body, one of them declaring he was out cold but otherwise unhurt.

  They moved through the exterior doors and Kate began to drift in the direction of the police van where most of the audience seemed to congregate but Oz stopped her, pulling her in tightly, the two of them a rock in the sea of motion on the sidewalk.

  “They’re going to separate us to take our statements, and I need to tell you this now,” he told her urgently.

  She shook her head. “I have something I want to tell you first.”

  His eyes were wide with impatience. She thought of her carefully prepared speech, her meticulously organized thoughts, the rarity of the fact she’d actually planned this statement instead of winging it as usual—and the irony that not one second of her planned moment would make it into the real one.