Quicksand

by Carolyn Baugh

  Wansbrough nodded, then turned back to the monitor and called up the photograph. She was lean, bottle-blond and hairsprayed, exactly what Nora would have expected from Wansbrough’s story. Nora gazed for a long, long time at the woman’s features. Limpid blue eyes, mascara-lengthened lashes, small pink lips, no discernible cheekbones, a tiny pug nose.

  “The Bureau had every intention of prosecuting her for the false tip. But she was clearly mentally unstable, so we knew we didn’t have a case…”

  Nora nodded, feeling as though she might vomit at any minute. She understood everything now. She sank her fingers deeply into the arm of her chair, fighting hard for control. When she spoke, the words came out hoarsely. “My mother would have begged them not to anyway. So we wouldn’t find out. To protect us.”

  “Yes, actually. I was told that your mom was relieved to hear about the psych issues because Schacht had had every intention of prosecuting. And she just wanted it all to be forgotten.”

  Nora suddenly pushed back the rolling chair and stood up. Wansbrough followed suit, wincing as he moved. “Look, Nora,” he was saying. “Let’s talk about it! I’m sorry if I overstepped. You’re like a daughter to me, you know that.”

  “John, you did the right thing. I just need … You know, a little time. To … sort it out.”

  She brushed by him as she made her way down to the women’s locker room to change.

  * * *

  She was glad for her old Temple sweatshirt, a soft red buffer against the icy night air. She should have put her Windbreaker back on, but she hadn’t been thinking clearly, hadn’t been thinking at all, had only known she needed to be out of that building and outside, running. She sprinted as quickly as she could through Chinatown, dodging pedestrians and bicyclists and taxis that could now dart swiftly through the streets in the post-rush hour lull. She crossed Broad Street and the sweeping expanse of the parkway, oblivious to the fast-filling pubs and restaurants that lined the streets of Center City. Soon she found herself by the river, where long eddies of white light from the street lamps splayed across its mute surface. She knew as soon as she started running that she should have stopped immediately and gotten someone to look at her rib. But she couldn’t think about that now. She just … she just needed to run.

  Your father is a good man, but he is not wise.

  Nora almost laughed out loud, finally understanding what her mother had meant by this.

  Oh, Baba you are so, so stupid.

  Theirs had been a marriage of opposites. Nora had always felt this. Her mother was shy and introverted, seeking refuge from the noisy city in the records of Abd al-Haleem and Umm Kulthoum and the poems of Nizar Qabbani. Her father was always talking, laughing loudly and deeply, clapping people on the back and plying them with food. He would pause now and then from tickling his kids to tell them that their mother had eyes like the ocean or a face like the moon. Ragab had a near-infinite ability to love intensely, but no tolerance for sitting still long enough to listen to his loved ones.

  Even when—or, perhaps, especially when—it came to religion they were very different. Their mother’s Islam was a warm, still pond, filled with books and knowledge and light. She prayed meditatively and emerged calm. One of Nora’s favorite memories from childhood was the sound of her mother’s voice, lush and low, reciting Qur’an during the most silent hours of the night.

  The Islam of their father was more of a vague ideal he didn’t quite understand. He prayed only sporadically but fasted the month of Ramadan with titanium precision, breaking his fast on a cigarette. His main fatherly concern was to get his daughter to wear longer skirts, baggier jeans, and blousier T-shirts. Because Muslims don’t dress that way! was the only justification he could ever come up with for badgering her to dress more conservatively than she already did. Her father tried to force, cajole, and ultimately to bribe her to pray. No overnights, no dances, no prom. And she could never, under any circumstances, marry a non-Muslim man. I would disown you. You would no longer be my daughter …

  Nora had been sure that her parents loved each other, but equally sure that, had it not been for their children, they would have gone their separate ways. Even when Fatin had been loneliest or most frustrated in her marriage, Fatin could not have separated her husband from his children. Ragab adored his kids, and would do almost anything for a kiss or to elicit their laughter. And they adored him, for he was tall and strong and handsome and funny, capable of fixing everything broken, and known for giving them gifts they didn’t need when they least deserved them. Above all, they loved watching the effect he had on people, whether customers or guests in their home, and the light that he brought to a room.

  He must have been lonely as well, she said to herself.

  Oh, God, but some South Philly skank? Really?

  Nora’s breathing was hard and fast, overcome by the memories of the pain and fear following her father’s disappearance. That horrible picture in the papers of him being led away in shackles, that picture for which she was bullied and mocked for so long afterward, even after he was let go, even after he was proven innocent … It was cold and getting colder, but Nora’s mind was churning, and she barely noticed anything beyond the boundaries of her mental minefields.

  She saw a few different courses of action open to her.

  One, she could confront him, demand to know how he could have cheated on Mama, attack him for his twisted double standards, and generally make a big scene.

  In this scenario, Ahmad would find out, and his image of his father would be trashed, just as hers had been.

  It felt bad. It felt so, so bad, and Nora couldn’t imagine doing that to Hammudi. Especially not now, with the SATs looming.

  Shit.

  Two, she could pretend she didn’t know anything about it, and they could all go on about their lives.

  But that was what her mother had done for her. Protected her.

  Would things have been different if she had known?

  Shit, shit, shit … Her feet pounded harder as she ran even faster, refusing to submit to the pain in her rib.

  Her father needed to know she knew.

  Because things just couldn’t stay the same after this. Because everything was different now.

  She found herself at the top of the museum steps. She sat down painfully on the top step, looking at the light-adorned city stretched out before her. She listened to the din of traffic—distant sirens, the screech of brakes and gunning of motorcycle engines unleashed on the beckoning parkway. She listened as her own jagged breathing came slowly but surely under control.

  * * *

  All she knew was that her blood was on fire.

  She couldn’t think, couldn’t link together two actions, or align in her head the steps necessary to walk out the door or bathe herself or make it to the bathroom or call for help or even just to slash her thin, brown wrists.

  But she could see her mother’s face, knowing she would surely have preferred that she be dead of starvation at home instead of here. Anything but this. And now she was oceans away … Rahma pictured the ocean, pictured herself floating in it as she tried to cool the fire in her blood. If all the sea were ink … Rahma’s mind trailed off, searching, searching for the rest of the verse, but it hid, elusive in the gray depths of her mind.

  Her mother knew the verse. Her mother knew. When he entered the room not long after sunset, he found her curled into one corner, rocking, rocking, rocking. Mama knows, she said, tears pouring down her cheeks.

  Not you, not you …

  He stood over her for a moment.

  All that Rahma could register was the revulsion on his face.

  He hoisted her up to a standing position and steered her into the bathroom; cockroaches skittered as he flipped the light switch.

  Mama … she sobbed. Mama …

  He twisted back one of her arms, then shoved her into the tub and turned the shower on over her. He gruffly rinsed the worst of the filth from her before dragging her back to the
sagging mattress.

  CHAPTER 6

  The pain in Nora’s rib cage was searing when she awakened the next morning. She gathered herself slowly and painfully, determined to come up with some kind of breakfast for Ahmad before school. When he walked into the kitchen, he found her pouring hot milk into matching mugs that held Lipton tea bags.

  He stopped to stare at her before sitting down. “What’s the matter with you?”

  She shrugged, laying out slices of soft white cheese and Kalamata olives on a plate. She flicked on the stovetop burner and warmed a pita over the open flame with the tongs, then handed it to him, doing the same for herself.

  He looked at her suspiciously. “Did you get hurt?”

  “No, I didn’t get hurt, I’m completely fine, thank you.” She sat down next to him, trying not to groan, and, as if for proof, took a long sip of the warm, milky, tea.

  “Trouble with Special Agent Colleague?”

  “Ahmad!”

  “Then what?” he asked, as he chewed a huge mouthful of bread and cheese.

  She knew if she told him about the drive-by he’d be totally unable to concentrate. She reached over and tousled her brother’s hair. “Just up late worrying about a case.”

  “The gangbanger?” he asked, smoothing his hair.

  “Yeah.” She studied her brother’s face thoughtfully. “You got gangsters at school?” she asked, sipping at her tea.

  “I’m pretty gangsta.” He set down his mug, then flashed a hand sign at her, his thumb and first two fingers widespread, and his final two fingers curled over tightly.

  Nora laughed. “Yes, you are, I can tell. Do you even know whose sign that is?”

  Ahmad shook his head. “No idea.”

  “Well, don’t go flashing it anymore, it’ll get you killed in some parts.”

  “Why, whose is it?”

  “Latin Kings. Where’d you learn it?”

  “Kid in class. Does it all the time, mostly when he’s angry at the teacher.”

  “Yeah, you just stick to SAT signs, okay?”

  He regarded her thoughtfully. “Is it worse to be thought of as a gangbanger or a terrorist?”

  She sipped her shay bi-laban slowly. “Gangbangers do more damage in the long run. But since the victims are usually people who can’t speak up, or when they do no one pays attention, we don’t really get it. A bombing holds people’s attention a lot better than a shooting in a ‘bad’ part of town.”

  Ahmad looked away. “Doesn’t help to have the wrong kinda name.”

  She leaned forward, laying her hand on his arm. “Someone messing with you at school?”

  Ahmad sighed, glancing at the clock. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Ahmad, look at me—”

  His warm, brown eyes met hers.

  She spoke quickly. “There is nothing you can’t handle. Don’t you let some punk get inside your head. You stay focused on what you’re doing and you do it with dignity, you got it? The stuff people say, that’s on them, that’s all about whatever crazy situation they’re coming from. It has nothing to do with you.”

  Her brother nodded, then looked suddenly ten again. “When I think about this test I want to puke.”

  “Come on, you’re gonna do great, in sha Allah. It’s a day of your time—and in sha Allah it will mean a four-year scholarship, right? Now, you want more shay bi-laban?”

  He looked at his near-empty mug. “Yeah, as long as you’re spoiling me, might as well take advantage of it.”

  She stood and walked to the refrigerator. As she took out the milk, she said, “You want me to drive you? I can run get the car from the garage.”

  He stared at her. “Ummm, I had plans to arrive alive, actually.”

  “Boy!”

  “Yes, yes, I know. You have a gun…”

  * * *

  She left just after Ahmad, going in the opposite direction. She decided to ride the bus, and she wedged herself in among the dour-faced commuters, descending painfully just outside the William J. Green, Jr. Federal Building.

  In the crowded security line, she was keenly aware of every small brush of a shoulder or jostling by a swinging briefcase. Her entire body felt electric with pain. She eyed the doorway to the stairwell, then immediately discarded the idea and stood with the throngs in front of the wide bank of elevators. Of all the people Nora didn’t want to see at that moment, Ben Calder topped the list.

  He squinted at her. “What is this? Nora taking the elevator? Without being bullied by Wansbrough?”

  “Good morning,” she said evenly.

  “Good morning,” he replied. His voice took on a serious note. “Are you okay?”

  She tucked her earbuds into her bag. “I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”

  “Whatcha listening to?” he asked.

  She hesitated. She had picked the music because she woke up thinking of her mom, imagining her pain, and understanding why she had spent so many years as a hopeless romantic. After a moment, though, Nora admitted, “Umm Kulthoum, Star of the East.”

  “Hook me up,” he said, pulling out his own earbuds.

  “Oh, no, no way. She’s an acquired taste.” Nora hesitated, then gave Ben a half smile. “I won’t have you making little white-boy grimaces. The woman was—is—an institution.”

  He took the bait, still clutching the earbuds. “Racist. Racist. Racist.” She moved to protest, but he interrupted her, saying, “I will Google this woman. I will buy her albums. I will sing her songs all day long. And you will see. What’s good enough for Nora Khalil is good enough for her white-boy buddy Ben.” The elevator opened and they stepped on, along with a small crowd. “How’s John?” Ben asked.

  “He wasn’t too hurt to come back for his laptop last night. But I hear Schacht actually forbade him from coming in today. So it’s good you’re here. We’re expecting the brother of Hafsa al-Tanukhi any time.”

  “Sure, no problem.” Ben studied her. “What were you doing here last night?”

  Nora shrugged. The elevator paused at the fifth floor, discharging a few of its passengers. “Shootin’ stuff.” She lowered her voice and leaned in, inadvertently catching the scent of his aftershave. “Our little Jane Doe has gonorrhea, by the way.”

  Ben frowned. “Shit,” he murmured, as Nora pulled away. Their eyes held for a moment, and Nora was grateful that the doors swooshed open.

  They emerged from the elevator with three other agents and two hairsprayed administrative assistants. When they entered their cubicle, Nora sank into her chair with relief she hoped was not visible.

  But Ben was regarding her, noting her drawn features. “You don’t look right to me. Was it the shooting yesterday? Or are you upset about Jane Doe?”

  She sighed. Yes. All that. And bruising a rib, losing a father. Where to start? “I’m good, Ben. Let’s just get through today.”

  “Okay. Any word from Libby and Jonas about the computer?” he asked.

  Libby called back, “Whatever was on it was wiped or saved to disk. End of story.”

  Nora and Ben shared a look. “You are no longer the best computer geek ever!” he called.

  “Thank you, Benjamin!” she returned tartly. “And you are no longer the best agent because you can’t find where they put the data!”

  He shook his head and said, softly, “Maybe when we are grown-ups we will get an office with real walls.”

  The morning passed quickly, the eighth floor dense with activity and the sound of ringing phones and laser printers spewing out reams of paper. Within their cubicle, Nora and Ben worked side by side through a blur of phone calls, e-mailed reports, and files, as they rushed to finish their own paperwork while filling in the gaps left by John Wansbrough’s absence. Eric Burton would appear, then exit silently, then reappear at random moments throughout the morning; Nora did not ask him what he was working on, and, as usual, he never volunteered information or spoke out of anything but necessity.

  Just after eleven, Nora’s direct line rang.
It was the mother of Tameka Cooper.

  “Cheryl from Tress It Up gave me your number,” came the voice. The woman sounded so exhausted and listless that Nora shuddered.

  “Yes, Mrs. Cooper. I’m glad you called me.” Gently, Nora began asking questions. Tameka’s mother was in a fog and seemed to know almost nothing about her daughter’s habits. The only thing she knew for certain was that her daughter knew Dewayne Fulton, who she always referred to as “Reality.” How they had met was completely obscure. The extent of their relationship was unknown. But shortly after coming to know him, she began coming home with Louis Vuitton bags and Coach sneakers.

  And then she didn’t come home at all.

  After Nora hung up, Ben turned to her, his eyes a question.

  Nora gestured to the phone with her head. “Mother of a young girl who may be caught up in this gang-pimping thing—Dewayne’s day job when the meth trade is slow.”

  Ben nodded. “Renaissance man, that guy.” Stretching, he looked over Nora’s desk. It was covered with photos of the crime scene and the neighboring houses. She had set up all the pictures the techs had taken of the neighborhood homes, and reconstructed a mini version of the Kingsessing block there on the desk. Photos of the corpse were laid in the center.

  Pulling up the empty chair from Wansbrough’s desk, Ben leaned in to study the layout.

  “We’re missing something important, Ben, I can feel it.”

  He contemplated the scene from various perspectives.

  Nora said, “I’m totally confused about any connection between Dewayne and our newest victim. But I’m honestly still trying to figure out the connection between Kylie and Dewayne. The whole sex with Kylie thing is still freaking me out.”

  Ben looked up. “What if he was pimping her like this other girl?”

  Nora’s eyes widened slightly, surprised she hadn’t thought of it.

  He sat back in John’s chair, thinking. “Well, why not? I mean, especially given what you guys found out from the hairdresser.”

  “Monty would have found traces of other semen, then,” Nora said.

  “Would he?” Ben jumped up.