Quicksand Page 16

  What did her aunt say? Nora had the presence of mind to ask herself. She squatted next to Sanaa, gathering the time-worn words—

  But the woman surprised her and suddenly sprang up, hurling herself at her husband, beating him with her fists. “This is your fault! We should never have come here. I told you it would be better to die in our country than be strangers in America! I told you, I told you! I begged you, you stubborn bastard! I begged you! You bastard! America! We will be safe in America, you said! Well, there’s your America, they’ve gone and killed her!”

  When Sanaa clawed her husband’s cheeks with her unpainted fingernails, drawing blood, Nora pulled her arms away and began dragging her from the living room to the bedroom. Sanaa did not stop shrieking her daughter’s name or cursing her husband, but Nora began murmuring the words she’d found in her memory. We are God’s and to Him we return, she repeated over and over, convinced she was not heard, but equally convinced that she had nothing else to say.

  When Sanaa found herself deposited on the bed, she looked up at Nora, her eyes bewildered and bereft. She reached up and grasped Nora’s hand, desperately. “I never wanted to come here,” she said, her tone pleading.

  Nora hesitated, weighing her words. “But you’re here,” she answered finally. Then she added, “Your son will be home from class soon. He’ll need your help to get through it. Help him. You don’t have the luxury of falling apart, do you understand?” Nora’s father had said these things to her when Mama died. Pretending to be strong for her little brother had kept Nora from crumbling.

  Sanaa’s wet eyes held Nora’s for a moment, and she clutched her hand harder before releasing it. Then she curled in on herself, her weeping softer. Nora pulled the throw blanket over her and slipped out of the room, exhausted.

  Hafsa’s father had remained in his fog, oblivious to the chaplain’s practiced soothing. Even after the chaplain and Nora had gently explained that they must keep the body for a few more days, but would return it to them soon for burial, Omar al-Tanukhi did not speak. It seemed to Nora that he was reviewing every moment of his life that had led to this one, every sacrifice he had made and indignity he had stomached with the hope that life would somehow be better for his children.

  They left their cards, along with numbers for grief counselors and case managers on his coffee table, and walked quietly out the door. Nora was relieved that the parents were so horrified by the death of their daughter they had not demanded details. She did not know how she would have gone about explaining that Hafsa’s eyes had been cut out and her naked body dumped in an alley.

  When they left him, Omar al-Tanukhi was still standing stock still in his living room. Silent tears skated over the thin, red scratches on his face, wetting his graying beard.

  * * *

  Eric Burton was sitting at his desk, his long fingers flying over the keys of his laptop.

  After being with Hafsa’s parents, Nora had wanted only to rush home to bed, but she had returned to the office to get her own laptop. She was relieved Ben wasn’t there, because she knew something would break inside her if he invited her to talk about what had just happened. “Hey, Eric,” she greeted him. “We ID’d the body.”

  He looked up, interested.

  “Hafsa al-Tanukhi, Iraqi-American.” Nora pushed away the emotion that swirled up now as she said the name. She swallowed, making her voice as even as possible. “Apparently she taught literacy at one of the mosques we were talking about. I called Wansbrough; he asked me to see what you’ve found out about the imam at Unity Masjid—her brother says the imam is possibly very conservative. We need to talk to him tomorrow.”

  Burton nodded, then called up a document on his screen, sending it to print. He tugged it off the printer and handed it to Nora. It was a single page, but dense with print on the front and back.

  Nora scanned Burton’s report. Shaykh Anwar was a Syrian who had answered the call of the rather squalid Unity Masjid when his options with the Syrian government had run out. The deal they gave him, while still well below the poverty line in the United States, was infinitely preferable to a stint in a Damascus prison; he had just been drawn into the revolution, and he had realized quickly that the stakes weren’t for him. He was a salafi, an ultra-conservative, and the congregation had shown no signs of protesting his views. The African Americans in the mosque looked to him as an authority because he was coming with a diploma from a respected religious institution in Syria, and the few Arab Muslims in Kingsessing were relieved to have one of their own after the previous imam who often mispronounced the Qur’anic verses.

  “You’re going to be interviewing him with Wansbrough?” Burton asked.

  “Yes,” Nora said, coming to the end of the page and meeting his gaze.

  “Maybe you aren’t the right person to do that,” he said.

  “Why not?” Nora, surprised, demanded hotly.

  Burton regarded her with narrowed eyes. “Because you don’t belong here, Nora. I believe you were accepted to the task force because someone somewhere decided it would look good to have a Muslim girl from the ‘hood’ on board. Striking some kind of visible ethno-religious counterpoint.”

  Nora felt a chill on her neck, and her breathing quickened. She glanced into the hallway, wondering if anyone had overheard him, wondering what he knew and how he knew it. She was so busy straining for the sound of Jonas and Libby bickering at their desks that she almost forgot to be angry that he was suggesting she didn’t merit her position.

  “Come on, Officer Khalil—” he accentuated the heavy first consonant of her last name in a way that left her no doubt that he was mocking her. “What do you bring to the table? Athleticism? That may be enough for Philly PD, but it doesn’t count for much here. Mental acumen? Hardly.”

  She could barely register his words, she was so surprised at the attack. She scrambled to focus.

  But Burton wasn’t done. “I know what you’ve been hiding about your father—”

  Now Nora was on her feet, furious. “That’s not a secret, Burton, and I have nothing to hide! Any idiot could do a Google search. He was wrongly accused, and his name was cleared completely! End of story.”

  “It could be the end of story,” Burton countered, “unless you have a bone to pick with the FBI—”

  She gaped at him. “What, do you think I would sabotage you?”

  “Why wouldn’t you? Either way, you can’t possibly be impartial.”

  “Impartial how?” she said, her voice going icy cold.

  “You will always have a propensity to be sympathetic toward Muslims and Arabs.”

  “What are you even talking about?”

  Burton rose, bringing his face close to Nora’s. His blue eyes were narrowed and cold, but his breath was hot against her skin as he spoke. “It was a massive error in judgment on Schacht’s part to let you on the task force—let you get your foot in the door of this organization. You’re just another terrorist waiting to happen. So you better know I’ll be watching you very, very closely, and reporting everything you do and everything you say.” As he walked out into the near-empty hallway, he looked back at her with disdain. “Everything.”

  * * *

  It was well past seven when Nora left the office. She wanted to run home, but the pain in her rib was unrelenting now. She sat numbly on the thirty-three bus, a rich combination of Sanaa’s screams and Burton’s accusations thumping in her head.

  Everything within her had wanted to kick Burton in the sternum. It was Fordham High all over again; this time, instead of sucker punches she had been verbally slashed. But the wounds were the same: being doubted, having her loyalties questioned. The surprise came at having to deal with it in the workplace, just when she’d thought things had been going so well.

  It was almost seven thirty when she walked into the Cairo Café. It was a good crowd for a Thursday night. Nora nodded at the two servers who were weaving between the tables, palming massive dishes of kabob and kofta. The smell of curried l
amb hit her hard, and she realized she was intensely hungry.

  Ragab’s face broke into a smile as she pushed through the swinging doors. It was clear he wanted to forget their altercation over Ben’s car. The flame from the grill rendered his face flushed and hot; she kissed his cheek lightly. She knew she had to talk to him eventually about the other woman, but now was not the time. She had to figure out how to handle it.

  “What can I make you?” he asked in Arabic.

  She considered this, and then, thinking of Ben, said wistfully, “Cheesesteak.”

  Her father looked aghast. “You have to be kidding! With the mushy bread and the canned cheese?”

  “Come on, this is a Philadelphia restaurant. You should have some version of a cheesesteak. Halal cheesesteak. Think about it.”

  Ragab eyed her. “I’ll think about it. For now, how about lamb curry?”

  Nora admitted to herself that that was exactly what she wanted. She nodded.

  “Okay.” And then, cautiously, he said, “How was your day, habibti?”

  “Productive,” she answered blithely. She watched her father sideline the order he’d been cooking in order to prepare her food, and she smiled. “Ahmad back from SAT study session yet?”

  “Upstairs,” he answered.

  “Good. Is he okay? He’s really worried about the test. Did he tell you anything?”

  Ragab shrugged. “With Ahmad, it’s always hard to tell. He doesn’t talk much, like his sister.”

  “Yes, well, an important trait we learned from our mother.” Her tone was bitter, she realized. But Ragab seemed not to notice.

  “Three antisocial people in one family, and I am the only normal one.” He gestured heavenward with his long aluminum spoon. “Why?”

  “Aren’t you enough of an extrovert for all three of us?” she asked. “‘So that you don’t lose the balance,’” she added.

  “Your mother always used to quote that verse, may God have mercy on her.” Ragab poured her curry into a to-go carton. “I made double—feed your brother. You want baklava?”

  “Already got it,” Nora said, showing him that she had pulled two slices out of the dessert fridge.

  “Yalla, go on.”

  “Thank you, ya Baba.”

  “Your aunt Madiha says she sent you a message on the Fays.” This was Ragab’s designation for Facebook. “Send her back a message, be polite.”

  “In sha Allah,” Nora responded, having no intention whatsoever of doing so. She pecked him on the cheek as she made for the stairs.

  Ahmad was praying when she walked in. She removed her shoes, carefully set the food on the kitchen table, and waited for him to finish. He looked tired.

  “Habibi, how was your day?”

  He shrugged and sank down next to her at the kitchen table. He groaned softly and placed his forehead on the table.

  Nora reached out a hand and rubbed his back. “Come on. Did you have a bad practice test or something?”

  He groaned again. “Yes. Of course. I mean, not the math. But I have so much to do, just homework. And still I have to study for this stupid test.” He turned his head to look at her, letting his cheek rest fully on the table. “I hate the English language.”

  “I know you’ll do fine, Hammudi. I know it, you’ll see. You are studying so hard.” She took her hand and ruffled his hair.

  “It doesn’t make any sense. And the words are too long!”

  Nora chuckled; she felt the same way. Which was why the idea of more school had made her queasy, and she had jumped at the police academy chance when it came her way. Eric Burton’s words came back to her.

  What did she bring to the table, after all?

  * * *

  John Wansbrough was waiting for her outside the Cairo Café at 6:30 A.M.; they had decided to try to catch up with the imam after the dawn prayer. John had refused to take any more time off. Nora had delivered the Suburban into the custody of the forensic team, and it was now parked at the FBI’s garage in South Philly. They had issued him another black Suburban, this one slightly older and worn, and he looked as though in mourning for his bullet-riddled ride.

  “How’s the arm today?” she asked, strapping on her seat belt.

  He shrugged, guiding the car into the scant traffic. “Hurts like hell, thanks for asking.”

  “Still getting sympathy at home?”

  “That well ran dry yesterday. Would you ever ask a man with a gunshot wound to take out the trash?”

  “That depends on the trash, I guess,” Nora said. “Did you hear back from ballistics about what went through your arm?”

  “Semi-automatic, .22 caliber. They pulled four of them out of the side of my fine vehicle, too. When I find the bastard…”

  “Completely unconcerned about the arm, outraged over the car. Men are so ridiculous.” Her voice had a slight edge to it.

  He glanced over and noticed the dark shadows beneath her eyes. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

  She did not reply for a while, and he was about to ask his question again, when she finally said, “Do you think I’m here as part of some sort of affirmative action thing for Muslims?”

  He turned to face her fully as they paused at a light. “Why would I think something like that?” he asked carefully.

  She fidgeted with a crease in her trousers, then said, “Burton said that.”

  John was silent, watching her intently. “Do you believe him?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered. Nora worked her jaw, looking away. She had wanted immediate confirmation that she was essential and valuable and valued.

  John read her reaction. “Nora, you are bright and strong and smart and the fastest young agent, man or woman, I have ever had the privilege of seeing rocket across the back alleys of Philadelphia. You get me your reports before I even ask for them. You stay up half the night working and preparing when the rest of us are asleep. Do you really need me to tell you this?”

  She met his eyes. “I—I don’t know,” she answered. “I was so surprised by what he said to me.”

  John tilted his head. “What’d he say?”

  “He thinks I won’t be able to be impartial when the subject matter is related to Arabs or Muslims. And that I’m a terrorist waiting to happen.”

  John rolled his dark brown eyes. “Oh, boy … hey, listen, it’s part of the thick skin thing, Nora. I can go after Burton if he harms you in any way, or if he obstructs your work in any way. But I can’t do anything to him for thinking you’re part of a sleeper cell. Sticks and stones, girl.”

  “Oh, John. This is more than sticks and stones. This is my colleague.”

  “And half the country. Maybe more. So prove him wrong.” Wansbrough glanced at her, eyes flashing. “And them.”

  She listened, looking steadily out the window at the city as it began to stir.

  “I’m tired of having to prove myself,” she said irritably.

  John threw back his head and laughed. “How old are you?”

  She knew he knew, so she remained silent.

  “You’re just getting started, girl. You have a long, long road ahead of you, and you will have to prove yourself every day in every way. And your victories are gonna come at a higher price than everyone else’s, and your mistakes are gonna be scrutinized harder than everyone else’s, and that’s just what it is. Believe me, I know this inside and out.”

  She held his gaze, feeling small.

  He continued, his tone softer. “Look, Nora, Eric Burton is very smart. His input is usually very valuable, and he’s very good at his job. He wants to watch you, let him watch. Show him what you’ve got. Don’t you back down from anyone, and don’t let anyone scare you. Just keep doing what you’re good at, with good intentions, and the rest will work itself out.”

  Nora shook her head, realizing she’d just said the same thing to Ahmad yesterday.

  “And hey,” John continued, turning onto Walnut Street. “Chaplain Rogers told me about how things went with the victi
m’s family yesterday. You calmed that woman down, and that was invaluable. You had the Arabic skills, the cultural skills—Who else was gonna be able to do that? Let’s say for argument’s sake that you were included because of your ethnicity. I don’t see how that’s a bad thing these days.”

  She listened silently, watching the buildings slide by. She considered his words, wincing again despite herself at the memory of the scene with the al-Tanukhis. Finally she said, “We have to fast-track that body.”

  John nodded. “Monty is digitizing every inch of every knife angle, trying to get it home to them today, don’t worry. But don’t forget that however impressive his grief, her father is still a person of interest in this case. Now, come on. We’ll stop at that smelly Starbucks at Thirty-fourth. I’ll buy you some mint tea. I owe you one for setting up my anniversary dinner.”

  She had forgotten to ask him about it. “It was a good night?”

  “I’ll be paying it off through next year. But yes, it was a very good night…”

  As he drove up onto the edge of the curb, he looked like he was about to add something by way of elaboration, but Nora held up a hand. “Leave it right there, Old Man.”

  He laughed out loud, then shoved the gearshift into park and jogged into the Starbucks. There was no line at that hour, and he soon returned holding two steaming cups. He handed Nora hers, asking, “So are we ready for all this? You got all the information you need to ask the right questions?”

  Nora considered this as she popped off the top to cool her tea. “I’m not sure, John.”

  “Okay, go over it with me.”

  “Okay. Hafsa is found, throat slashed and eyes cut out. We can assume that the eye thing means that she’s witnessed something that could get someone else in trouble All this is in the heart of gang territory when we’re in the middle of basically a war started by a drive-by and culminating in a rape and stabbing. Is she connected to all that in some way? We need to find out. Meanwhile, her dad’s sort of a classic, potential honor-killing suspect, her brother doesn’t really fit the part, but all we really know is that the mosque was the last place she was seen alive.”