Quicksand (14 page)

“I guess we're not a very subtle-looking crew…” she murmured to Ben.

He smiled his lopsided smile. “I love twinning with you. I'm thinking argyle sweaters for Christmas.”

“Eid,” she corrected him.

“Eid,” he conceded, as he guided the car across the intersection.

“Try not to shoot anyone, Ben,” she said.

“Come on, Nora. I hardly ever shoot anyone on Mondays,” he answered.

She exited the car and found Burton and Lin, both of whom broke into a run up Natrona Street to the thin corridor leading to the backside of the grim strip of row houses. The last easily decipherable sound she heard was Ben pounding on the door, announcing them, “Federal officers!”

The backyard of the ramshackle row house was mined with pieces of mangled metal and broken glass. It exploded into activity as bodies came charging out of the row house. Lin and Burton waved her on; those fleeing were not Grapevine and Rox. She and Burton reached the back door simultaneously.

“I'll cover you,” she said, pausing at the door frame and drawing her weapon.

Burton nodded and darted in, as Nora fought to make out figures and faces in the dimness of the building's interior. The back door was just off a grimy kitchen, and Nora's eyes fell immediately on a bearded white man with long, greasy hair. He sat on one of the sections of the floor that still retained its flowered linoleum tile, gazing up at them in a drugged haze, immobile, seeing them and not seeing them. The stench of the house tore into Nora's mouth and nose—human waste and rotting garbage and what could only have been vomit.

Above them, she heard the thumping of feet and shrieks; there were at least three others in the building aside from the band of agents. Chest heaving, weapon sweeping across the shadowy rooms, she trailed Burton as he darted from room to room on the ground floor. In the squalid living room he shouted, “Clear!” almost immediately. But as he entered what was once a dining room, he stopped short; a figure had darted through a door that led either to a closet or a basement. He turned back, met Nora's eyes, and motioned for her to follow.

Lin pounded up the stairs to join Ben and Jacobs in trying to subdue the crashes of breaking furniture and the unabating eruptions of profanity. Burton had opened the door off the dining room to find the basement, and, after confirming there was no electricity by flicking the light switch on and off several times, he was signaling to Nora to follow him down. She remained on the top step and trained her gun on the stairwell, covering him as he began to descend. Burton was almost to the bottom when they both heard the shattering of a windowpane. The sound came from inside and outside simultaneously, and Nora realized that it was the sound of someone kicking through a basement window to escape into the backyard.

“I'm in pursuit!” she shouted down to Burton.

“Go, go, go!” he cried, turning to run back up the stairs.

Nora raced out into the cool twilight, and saw Rita Ross's crown of dreadlocks retreating down the alley and out onto Natrona Street. Nora navigated the perilous stretch of yard and then darted out onto the street, just in time to see Rita vanish between two houses heading toward Douglass and 33rd beyond. Nora pounded across the pavement, her eyes riveted on Rita Ross, who was fast—very, very fast. It had been a while since Nora had had any serious running competition, and she found that all of her senses had sprung to life. Suddenly the air she was sucking into her lungs was sharp and bright, and it made her eyes water slightly; she narrowed them to keep Rita in her sights. She could imagine for a moment that the gun in her hand was a relay baton; she found a burst of speed and was flying. She vaguely registered the shouts of bystanders from their porches. She was close now, but Rita had darted into the traffic on 33rd Street and then into the park.

Let it be deserted, let it be deserted …
Nora prayed, terrified of traumatizing a little kid. But she raced past empty swing sets with relief. And then they were passing the basketball courts, and Rita Ross was starting to turn, and Nora could see the blade in her hand, and the fury in her eyes at being outrun; Nora shoved her piece into the holster at the small of her back, and barreled into Rita at full speed. Both women went sprawling onto the cool, wet grass of the field. Laying beneath her, Rita tried to slash at Nora with the blade, but Nora slammed her wrist against the ground, then flipped her over, pinning her arms before she could even gasp for breath.

In a seamless motion, Nora pulled the cuffs off her belt. “Where'd you run track?” she demanded, once they had clicked into place.

“Bitch!” Rita shrieked, struggling, trying to kick Nora off of her.

Nora shook her head and rolled away, then rose, pulling out her weapon again. She called Ben who didn't pick up, and wouldn't have heard her anyway under the stream of expletives tumbling out of Rita.

Nora took a few steps back and waited for Rita to tire herself out. She asked her again. “Where did you run track? You're really fast.”

“Are you fucking stupid?” Rita shouted. “You think I'm your little girlfriend or somethin'? I don't have to say shit to you, Bitch!”

Chest still heaving, Nora walked it off, waiting for Ben and Eric. “We could talk about Dewayne Fulton then.”

Although she was panting, Rita's gaze was molten lava as she struggled up off the dewy grass and stood facing Nora.

“Okay,” Nora pressed. “Then how about Kylie Baker?”

Rita made to spit at her, and Nora pointed the Glock at her in alarm, putting on her fiercest face. Rita's eyes darted between Nora's face and the tip of her gun. Finally she sputtered, “I'm not sayin'
shit
without my lawyer.”

“Oh, fine, whatever.” Nora's phone lit up soon enough, and Ben let her know they had taken Tyreek into custody. It was less than a minute before Eric Burton drove his Jeep over the soft expanse of field next to the basketball courts, and the two of them guided a still cursing Rita Ross into the backseat, installing her next to Tyreek. Agent Lin rode with Eric to escort them back to Center City, with Agent Jacobs following in his own car.

Nora and Ben remained standing on the now-dusky field, Nora still panting.

“You okay?” he asked, regarding her closely.

Several long coils of hair had escaped her chignon, and she pushed them away from her face as she asked him, “Is it bad that I thought that was kinda fun?”

“Completely twisted,” he said, as they started for his car.

“Really?” she frowned.

“Of course not. It
has
to be fun. Why else would you stay?”

“Health insurance?” she ventured.

He laughed. “Well, okay. That too.” They walked in silence for a bit. “You did great though,” he added after a while.

She grinned. “Well, thanks, Ben. You too. I have no idea what you did, but I'm sure it was fabulous.”

He held open the door of the Ford for her. “Yes, I'm planning on billing double for tonight's services.” She started to sit, but Ben caught her arm.

She looked up, startled at his touch, and found his eyes bright.

“Nora,” he said, his voice warm.

Her breath caught.

“Give me a chance, Nora.”

“I—”

He leaned toward her, his lips almost brushing hers, but she pushed her hand firmly against his chest and stepped back, pressing herself against the icy frame of the car.

“I can't,” she said, her eyebrows furrowing in a sad frown, as she shook her head, her breath coming in quick, hazy puffs in the crisp air. “I can't, Ben.” Without looking at him again, she settled into the passenger seat and drew the seat belt across her.

His shoulders sagged as he pushed her door closed and circled to the driver's side. They drove in silence. It was only moments after departing the grim, hollow-eyed houses of Strawberry Mansion that they found themselves at Boathouse Row, the exclusive rowing clubs housed in wide, stately houses along the Schuylkill riverbank. Ben turned the car onto Kelly Drive and they passed the museum as they pulled onto the parkway.

“Look, Nora.” He glanced at her, then focused on the street. His face was suddenly serious. “I'm trying to understand. I know you like me. Even if you don't want to admit it.”

She looked up at him and inhaled, her stomach writhing. She hated the words that came out of her mouth. “Ben, I … I think we're done. Okay? We work together. We're friends. But I can't have you keep on pressuring me.”

“Is it something I said? The terrorist thing?”

“What? No, Ben, it's not that. Look, my family is everything to me, and I just don't want any stress, don't want any more drama than we've had, which is enough for a lifetime—”

“What? What does that mean, Nora? Talk to me.”

“I'll tell you about it someday, I swear. But the interracial dating thing, I've seen what happens … If I start up with you, it'll be like exploding a bomb right in the middle of my life.”

He stopped at a traffic light and turned to look at her in silence, his gaze somber. “You do know that we are officially the same race. The census says so. The census does not lie, Nora.”

She let her eyes dwell a little too long in his, then she looked away. “Ben, please. If you like me even a little, just … back off. Please.” The final word was no more than a whisper.

Ben Calder studied her, then turned away as the traffic began flowing again next to them. He was silent until they had neared the Cairo Café. Finally, he nodded. “Okay, Nora. I get it.” He forced a thin smile. “I did my best, right?” he said.

“I'm sorry, Ben—”

“Don't worry. All business from here on out; I'll e-mail you a copy of my report on our meeting with Watt.”

She sighed, feeling hollow, then said, “Thanks for the ride.”

He didn't look at her. “See you tomorrow.”

She opened the passenger door and emerged into the cool air. She stood for a while, watching him drive away.

*   *   *

Her father wore
a serious look. The restaurant held only a few customers, and Ragab had been delivering a plate of food to a single diner sitting by the window when Nora had exited Ben's car. He stood, now, waiting for her as she passed the perpetually empty hostess's stand.

Ragab didn't even greet her, only walked with her, speaking in rapid Arabic. “Who was that?”

Nora stared at him blankly. “What?”

“You just got out of a young man's car. I know your partner, John Wansbrough. This man was not John Wansbrough. John Wansbrough is a father like me.”

Nora sighed in exasperation, then cast a glance at the few tables. She spoke to him in Arabic, “Are you serious?”

“
Ya Noora
, who is this man you were riding with?”

“A colleague of mine on the task force who was nice enough to bring me home after a long day of work. Is there a problem?”

“
Ya Noora
, you know how I feel about that.”

“Well, you might consider how I feel!” she retorted, surprised at her own tone of voice.

Ragab stared at her. “Are you raising your voice to me?” He looked both hurt and angry, but Nora couldn't tell which one prevailed.

“Baba, I'm tired—I've been working all day…”

“Nora, you're still my daughter. I expect you to respect my rules. You have a car. If you don't want to drive it, and you need a ride home, call me, call Ahmad. Men? You don't ride in the cars of strange men. You
know
this, Nora. You have known this all your life. It doesn't look right.”

“To whom?” she demanded irritably.

“To
me
,” he said, giving her his back and heading toward the kitchen. He turned at the swinging door, speaking in a carefully controlled voice for the sake of the customers. “Until you're married, you need to worry about what
I
think. After you're married, let your husband worry about whose car you're riding in.”

Nora's jaw dropped. Furious, she stalked past him through the kitchen and climbed the stairs, slamming the door behind her.

*   *   *

She was being
drugged.

It was not the first time.

She lay on the bed, her arms spread wide across it, feeling such a heaviness pressing down,

down,

down upon her.

She could not move, could only listen, detached, trying to categorize the sounds that drifted in through the partially boarded-up window. This one can only be the shouts of children scuffling. This is a honking car horn, and this other a faulty car alarm awaiting deactivation by its absent owner. This is the slam of a door. And this louder one, what is this …

 … oh, yes, this is the sound of her lungs gathering up the air of this dank room and using it to prolong her life. She tried to will the lungs to stillness. Or the air to cease entering.

When she had first come, when everything was finally explained to her, and she finally understood, the tall one had given her a choice. She could take the pill before meeting with the first man … or not.

But if she met him and resisted him, they would beat her.

He had listened to her wailing protests, even patted her coldly on the back. She had wanted to work in America, he told her. This was the work for someone like her.

She owed him for the hellacious journey in the stinking cargo box with fifteen other weeping, seasick girls; owed him for the food she ate; and still she hoped to make enough money for her family back home,

home,

home …

She refused to take the pill: the thought of vacating herself was too terrifying. And when the man entered the room and began to shed his clothes, she had been determined to endure him. But when he touched her, and she smelled his sweating skin and the stench of his breath, something snapped within her and her fist sank into his eye with a fleshy, sickening thud and he howled and shrieked in pain, cursing in his own language, clutching his face.