Quicksand

by Carolyn Baugh

  Her mother had asked her to take care of her family, and this turned out to be the way that made the most sense to Nora. “I know today wasn’t what you had in mind, Mama. I’m sorry,” she said softly.

  She transferred a load of Baba and Ahmad’s things from the washer into the dryer to make room for her bundle of sopping clothes, wishing—as always—for her own place, her own space. Then she slid under her blanket, and the quiet tears that came had slightly less to do with dead hookers and rather more to do with wishing her mother’s voice could suddenly break the stillness with an old Arabic love song, or that her warm hand was there to rub Nora’s back and stroke her hair until she slept.

  * * *

  He was waiting. In the same room from which she’d fled, he was standing, his face dark and angry.

  The tall one with the dark glasses did not disentwine his coarse hands from her hair until he shoved her into the shabby room, cursing her.

  It won’t happen again, he said, by way of apology to the waiting man. Tonight she’s learning the consequences of running. Isn’t that right, whore? Isn’t that right? If you didn’t have a customer waiting, I would have taken that bitch who tried to help you and cut her up right in front of you. But I’ll deal with her later …

  Rahma cowered, terrified for the stranger she had now endangered.

  He leaned close to her face, and she saw through the dark glasses the blank, shriveled skin where his eye had been. His breath was hot against her face. You and the others will learn what it is to defy us.

  As the tall one’s footsteps echoed on the stairway, Rahma watched in terror as the man crossed to her. She whimpered, hating the scent of him, hating him, hating him. He had something cupped in his clenched fist, something she couldn’t see, and it scared her that he was hiding it from her. Could there be something worse or more fearsome than what had gone on in that room the night before?

  He sank on one knee onto the mattress and clamped his free hand over her mouth, a sure sign that he was going to rape her again. But suddenly his clenched other hand opened and he wiped his palm under her nostrils, pushing hard against her nose—she struggled for air, trying hard not to inhale through her nose, but she was gasping and choking, and then she felt the powder shoot up into her nose, exploding behind her eyes, boring into her brain, and she was overcome.

  It will be better for you now, he was saying, and his voice seemed distant and detached from his body. It will feel better, you’ll see.

  As she felt her muscles relaxing, and her body sliding away from her, she was aware that he was on top of her again, pushing apart her legs and pulling down her camisole to expose her just-budding breasts.

  This time she did not scream.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Nora?”

  She turned over and squinted into the dimness. “Hammudi?”

  “You okay?” She felt the mattress sink as her brother sat down on the edge of her bed.

  Nora sat up, disoriented. “Ya habibi, Ahmad. I’m sorry, I meant to stop by your school. I had the afternoon off.”

  “Nora, I’m not ten, you don’t have to walk me home anymore.”

  Her eyes adjusted, and she took in Ahmad’s rimless glasses and the dimple on his left cheek. His hair was raw black silk that framed his features in soft layers. She stretched her hand and ruffled it, even as he ducked away. “Yes, I know you’re not ten,” she said, smiling. “How was your day?”

  He shrugged. “It was a day. How was yours?”

  Nora shrugged back.

  “Shoot anybody?”

  She groaned and pulled a pillow against her face.

  “Did you?” he pressed.

  Ahmad was the only one in the world she talked to about her job. She spoke low and swiftly, even though she knew that her father couldn’t possibly hear her from the restaurant’s cramped kitchen downstairs. She told Ahmad about Dewayne and about Kylie Baker’s angry mother. She told him about the screaming woman and the gun at her neck and finally about Calder’s shot from four feet away and all that blood.

  When she finished speaking, Ahmad surprised her by folding her into a hard hug. “Nora, that’s really scary.”

  “Oh, Hammudi, it was my own fault. It didn’t occur to me there might be anyone else there, even though we’re always supposed to assume that. It was stupid not to wait for John, and stupid not to open that bathroom door as soon as I realized it was there. I’m gonna get lectured tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday!” he protested, holding her at arm’s length. “You said you were gonna help me study.”

  Nora grinned. “Come on, we’ll study now. Did Baba bring up some food?”

  Ahmad nodded. “Kofta and rice. Some salad.”

  The small, open kitchen was more like a wide corner of the living room, and was rarely used for actual cooking anymore. Their mother had insisted on painting it yellow, and it was a warm, inviting space. They ate food brought up from the restaurant there, and Ahmad always studied there, never in his room. Nora usually sat with him at night, her laptop open, researching and reading and attending to any reports she had to produce. Now the computer and books were shoved to one side, and they sat, not bothering with plates, eating out of the aluminum catering pan their father had filled with food and sipping from twin cans of Coke.

  Nora started drilling Ahmad on the tall stack of vocabulary flash cards. In his practice tests for the SAT, Ahmad always aced the math sections. But the vocabulary and essay sections were torture for him.

  “Ubiquitous.” Nora said, chewing a mouthful of spiced beef and rice.

  “Huh?”

  She swallowed, then said again, more clearly, “Ubiquitous.”

  “That isn’t even a word.”

  She shoved the card at him as proof.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Being everywhere at once. Constantly encountered. Widespread,” she read, then stuck her fork in a slice of cucumber.

  “Okay.” He thought, swishing Coke in his mouth, swallowing, burping softly, then said: “Homeless people are ubiquitous on the streets of Philadelphia.”

  Nora nodded. “Yessss. Can you think of an antonym?”

  Ahmad shrugged. “Rare?”

  “Sounds good to me.” She pulled out the next card. “Exegesis.”

  “Exegesis?” he repeated.

  “Yep.”

  “Sheeez … Nora, I never—”

  “Critical explanation of a text, especially a biblical text,” she read.

  “Okay, what would be an antonym?” he demanded.

  Nora shrugged. “Obfuscation? Try a synonym first.”

  He thought. “Clarification.”

  “Good.” Nora cut off another chunk of the kofta.

  The phone vibrated where she’d left it on the table, and Ahmad motioned to it. “You’re getting a call.”

  Nora reached swiftly for the phone. “Hello?”

  “Just calling to check on you,” she heard Calder saying.

  She pushed back her chair and stood up, then walked over to the living room window. “Thanks. I’m good.”

  “Good, good … You should know that Jonas and Libby opened the laptop. It was totally empty. They are guessing that this Lisa Halston had just ejected a flash drive.”

  Nora struggled to focus. “A flash drive?”

  “A flash drive.”

  “Was there a flash drive on her? Or collected by the evidence techs?”

  “Nope,” he answered. “So. Something to think about.”

  “Yep, I’m thinking about it alright. Maybe we should go back and double check the loft?”

  “Eric and I already went. Nothing. But we’re a little more interested in Lisa Halston at this point than we were this morning when she was just a hooker hanging out with Dewayne.” Ben was silent for an awkward moment, then said in a rush, “Do you want to go out for a while tonight? Get some coffee? Process stuff?”

  Nora cast an eye at Ahmad who was studying her intently. “I can’t, but tha
nks for asking.”

  “Other plans?”

  “Yes. Unbreakable. Sorry. But we can catch up tomorrow—you’re coming in, right? Even though it’s a Saturday?”

  “Of course. So we can get Dewayne’s statement.” Calder was quiet, as though waiting for her to say something. Then, with what sounded like resolve, said, “Okay, Nora. I’ll get on your calendar earlier next time.”

  She felt her cheeks flush. “See you tomorrow, then. Good night.”

  “’Night.”

  She sat down again and pulled out the next card.

  Ahmad stared at her. “You have a boyfriend.”

  “Ahmad! I do not have a boyfriend,” she spluttered.

  “You so have a boyfriend.”

  “Oh my God, I swear that you are the reason I need my own place. Benjamin Calder is an agent, a colleague.”

  Ahmad pointed his fork at her. “But he likes you.”

  “Maybe. Probably. But I’ve never encouraged him. And also he saved my life today, okay? So he called to check up on me. Both of those are nice things to do.”

  Ahmad was smiling. “Thank youuuuu, Agent Colleague!”

  Nora rolled her eyes.

  “Are you dating him? Oooh, you remember what happened when Ayesha got caught dating that white boy…”

  Nora remembered. Her friend Ayesha’s father had kicked her out, her mother had stood up for her daughter, and the parents actually divorced over it. “I don’t date, okay? You know that. You are my only date. Ever.” She went back to eating.

  Ahmad regarded her for a long while. “I wouldn’t tell him, you know.”

  Nora looked up. “Huh?”

  “Baba. I would never tell him. If you want to date, you should date. You’re an adult.”

  She shook her head at him. “I’m glad I have your permission,” she said sarcastically. “But it’s not an issue.”

  “I will totally cover for you,” Ahmad pressed. He imitated his father’s heavy accent. “Ya Hammudi, it’s three A.M. Where is your sister? and I’ll be like, ‘Saving the world, ya Baba, she’s saving the world,’ and you’ll be, like, gettin’ your groove on with Special Agent Colleague…”

  Nora waved a flash card at him. “I’m touched. Now study. The word is, ‘ambivalent.’”

  “Ha, I know that one. Nora is ambivalent about her commitment to Egyptian traditions!”

  The punch she landed on his shoulder produced exactly the howl of pain she had hoped for.

  * * *

  The William J. Green, Jr. Federal Building sat heavily on the corner of Sixth and Arch Streets. The ten floors of black steel and dark glass had always seemed a bit menacing to Nora. Yet most in the city seemed to pass it by unseeingly. Taxi drivers and their fares were focused only on the impossibly congested four lanes along Sixth Street, jockeying with brave bicyclists for position. School kids in navy pants and polo shirts lugged overstuffed backpacks as they ambled toward one of the many charter schools crammed into converted office buildings. Early morning tourists would soon descend on the massive Constitution Center just across the street from William J. Green, or the Liberty Bell complex, with the clock tower of Independence Hall presiding over the expansive mall beyond it.

  Nora had arrived at the office early. She was panting slightly as she entered; it was her habit to jog up the eight flights of stairs, especially if she hadn’t had time to run before work. She had hoped to settle in early, before Jonas and Libby, both of whom worked Computer Forensics in the next cubicle, started bickering. Their nasty jabs at each other seeped toxically through the vinyl wall.

  She nodded to two or three agents who looked up from their BlackBerries to murmur greetings. Special Agent Laurie Cruz paused to speak with her, shifting a fat file from side to side as she asked her about the shooting. It was the longest conversation Nora had had with Laurie, but she was grateful for—and a little embarrassed by—her concern.

  When Nora finally rounded the corner, she found that Wansbrough had beaten her by a few minutes. He was holding a white Dunkin’ Donuts cup and had just switched on his laptop. The anticipated lecture was fast in coming.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded. “I’m good. Hearing’s a little off, but other than that, it’s all good.”

  “Good. You messed up. I already spoke with Jacobs yesterday, but now I’m talking to you.” Wansbrough spoke softly, so that his voice would not carry. His face was kind but grave.

  Nora agreed quickly. “I know, I’m sorry.”

  “Tell me what went wrong.”

  She sat on the edge of her rolling chair, back straight. She took a deep breath. She had been over it all so many times in her head. “I should never have put my back to that wall. I should never have assumed that the woman I saw was Lisa Halston just because her hair was brown. I should have waited for you to fully secure Dewayne and leave him with Burton, and then we could have all entered the unknown room together and you could have covered us and vice versa.”

  John was nodding, watching her carefully.

  “Is Ben going to be in trouble?”

  He shook his head. “No, Nora. They’ve taken the body so that the medical examiner can look into what happened, but only as a matter of procedure. It isn’t urgent, and there are no accusations of impropriety against him, so they won’t even get to it until next week or the week after. He’ll have to file a report, I’ll file a report.” John shrugged. “He did exactly what he was supposed to, given the situation. He’ll be fine.”

  Nora let out a jagged exhalation, remembering.

  John smiled at her. “Okay, lesson learned the hard way. I’m about to type up my report now, I’ll expect yours later this afternoon.”

  “I e-mailed it to you this morning, sir, along with a copy to my lieutenant in the PPD.”

  Wansbrough smiled. “Overachiever. Any thoughts on the empty laptop?”

  Nora shook her head. “I have no idea, John. I sure didn’t see any flash drives or anything. Lisa Halston had both hands on her gun, as far as I could tell. And she wasn’t wearing much that had pockets. Maybe she just wiped its memory. Or put it on a microdot or something.”

  John Wansbrough nodded pensively. “I wonder if whatever information’s gone missing was related to her business or Dewayne’s?”

  “I guess we can ask Dewayne.”

  “I guess we can. Now: we aren’t seeing Dewayne for another hour, what are you up to so early?”

  Nora looked at her hands, then up again. “I thought I’d spend some time at the range. I started worrying about having to take that shot Calder took for me. If, you know, I needed to do it for you or Calder or Burton … I want to be sure I wouldn’t have missed.”

  He got that fatherly look that made Nora feel like a gradeschooler. “Good idea. Go on, Nora. Just be back at nine.” She was surprised he didn’t pat her on the head.

  “Okay,” she said, starting to walk away.

  Wansbrough immediately called her back, though. “Nora, one more thing.”

  She returned to stand in front of him. “Yes?”

  “About that word…”

  She was quiet, waiting.

  “I’ve been working hard all my life to fight that label. My whole life, you understand? And I won’t let any human being call me that to my face. I particularly hate it coming from other black men. Even when they use it to mean ‘friend.’ ‘My nigger!’ Saying it aloud means something, something ugly, and even turning it around, as they say, appropriating it does not mean empowerment. Just the opposite. It’s more like … internalization.”

  Nora shifted from foot to foot under Wansbrough’s gaze. She would rather he chastised her for poor performance.

  “What was it, bullying in school? You wanna tell me about it?” he asked her.

  “Yes I do. Someday. It’s … not my favorite subject.”

  He nodded. “Look, Nora, I understand that. But you have to decide what your own labels are. You pick them out, every day. And you live up to them or you
don’t. And you have to decide if they have to do with surface or substance. But I can’t have you sticking to one like ‘sand nigger’ or any other kind of ‘nigger’ on my time.”

  Nora listened intently.

  “You know that Schacht assigned you to me because I’ve got so many years under my belt. I’m the best one here to train you, toughen you up. This is at least as important as how to fight bad guys.”

  Nora raised her chin and held his eyes.

  His voice was gentler: “Nora, I’ve lived through more racism than you will ever know. I guarantee it. You can trust me.”

  She nodded, feeling something release inside of her, grateful for the sense of recognition, the familiar, she found in his eyes. “I trust you, John. Thank you.” The fatherly look she’d chafed under just a moment earlier suddenly felt warm and calming. Nora gave him a half smile. “I’m gonna go shoot stuff now.”

  He waved her off, shaking his head.

  She was grateful to find the firing range empty except for a dull-eyed young man signing out ammunition from behind a heavy glass partition.

  The firing range occupied the back third of the basement. Nora hated it. She hated the long, dank hall she had to walk down, almost always alone. She especially hated that to get there she had to pass by Monty Watt’s forensic lab, and she knew now all that it contained. She hated the angry crack of a firing gun and the acrid smell of a discharged weapon. But she also hated reeling in her target and finding a smattering of bullet holes everywhere but dead center.

  She pulled the heavy plastic earmuffs over her ears and stood steadily in place. She slowly pulled her Glock out of its armpit holster under her navy suit jacket. It was a weight she’d grown used to; Nora knew her gun well. In her police academy training she had learned how to disassemble and reassemble it from the ground up. She knew the trigger mechanism housing from the magazine spring and floor plate, the locking block pin from the extractor depressor plunger spring. She understood what made the gun work, but it still felt alien and deadly in her hand.

  She aimed carefully at the target. Slowly and methodically she emptied her clip.