… his real name isn’t Michael. It’s Mustafa Ali Ammar.”
Paul dropped the phone.
Mustafa … Mustafa, where did he hear that name …?
Zehra!
He picked up phone, keyed in Zehra’s earlier message, and caught his breath. He punched the address into GPS, checked to make sure he had both his weapons, shouted at Conway that he was leaving. He heard the faint screams of his boss’ protests as he roared out of the lot, nearly hitting the civilians.
Forty-Three
Zehra felt dreamy. The crowds of people kept passing through forever, it seemed. Her mind wandered through the recent several days. Exhaustion tip-toed around her. She thought of the trial starting on Monday, her violent client that she would fight with, the threats and bombing, her mother’s desire for her and Mustafa to get together, her loneliness, and Mustafa himself.
Her fatigue made it hard to think objectively. Maybe she shouldn’t be objective about love. All her life, she’d been analytical, hard working, dedicated to her career, her mission in life. Look where it had gotten her. She longed to let go, to trust him.
“He’s lying …” BJ’s words echoed in her mind.
“But look at all the wonderful things he’s done,” she said back to the absent investigator. “His work in the mosques, his kindness, intelligence, worldly charm, and look at these kids.” She glanced at the group, their faces lit up by pride-both the parents and the students.
She sighed and focused on the people again. They hugged their children, laughed, and moved on. Zehra’s eyes fell on the curbed scalpel sitting on the table next to her.
The curved knife … Zehra’s mind snapped to electric attention.
What was it about the scalpel? She tried to remember some thought from the past, but it rolled over and disappeared from her mind. Then it struck her hard. Her chest tightened painfully. One of the boys looked back at her in concern. She waved him off. Rain drummed on the big windows and ran down in slow, torturous streams.
When BJ and Mustafa had been at her condo watching the video of the murder, Zehra had been unable to see the actual knife in the film. She knew from the evidence room that the knife found in El-Amin’s apartment, the murder weapon, was curved. She recalled holding it in her hands.
But no one, including Mustafa, could see the knife in the video. He’d said the “curved” knife slicing through the victim’s throat really upset him. How could he know it was curved?
Zehra started to shake.
Her hands quivered. She couldn’t breathe. She fought to gain control. Everything crashed down on her like a tsunami hitting a harbor. The thought of Mustafa killing the young man sickened her. He must be involved in the disappearing Somalis … but why? What was he up to? The bombing …?
The betrayal, the lies, and the gifts he’d given her. The long talks about progressive Islam-all of it staged and false. Tears filled her eyes, and she sniffed repeatedly. How could she have missed it? An intense pain slammed into her chest. Two of the boys turned to her and asked if she was okay.
She calmed herself. Took several deep breaths. She stood and walked to the window and looked outside. Balanced herself against the wall. Cool air streamed over her ankles from the vent on the floor.
Purple clouds hung low over the roofs across the street. Underneath dark bushes, shadows filled in, hiding the lawns and sidewalks. Where the warmed vegetation met the cooling rain, a fog rose from the grass to further obscure things.
What should she do?
She worried about the boys. What did Mustafa have planned?
Zehra thought to run but remembered he had given her a ride. Besides, she didn’t know what to do. Anger, furious anger, replaced her fear. Somehow, she had to escape as soon as possible. Was he still in the school? Would he insist on her coming with him? Could she fake him out? Pretend she didn’t know anything?
She hurried into the crowded hall and looked around for the FBI agent. She couldn’t find him.
Another large group surged out of the classroom. Zehra went back in. The boys stood up, stretched, and pushed at each other, young and carefree.
Amongst the noise, she thought she heard Mustafa’s familiar footsteps in the hall. She forced herself to turn and look. Just another parent. Where was the agent?
Fewer people came through the classroom now. Zehra ran back into the hall. Didn’t see Mustafa or the FBI agent. Around her, the parents unfurled umbrellas to protect them from the rain outside.
Zehra returned to the table where she’d waited. When she calmed down, it seemed simple. She’d leave with a big crowd of people and get to the parking lot. Once there, in spite of the rain, she’d hide or leave. She thought of her cell. Call for help now, but she’d still have to get away from him.
If only she could make it out before Mustafa came back. Zehra didn’t think she could fool him. At the table, she felt dizzy and grabbed the edge of the counter to steady herself. This would be tough.
Her cell phone rang so loudly that her hand swept the table top, knocking off Sergio’s jar. It smashed on the floor, splattering fake red blood across her shoes. She fumbled to open her phone. It was Mustafa.
“I am sorry to be late. I was delayed. How’s everything?”
Zehra gulped a breath of air. “Uh … yeah. The parents are starting to leave. Where are you?”
“I’m just about there. Wait for me.”
“Sure … sure. I’ll watch for you.” She hung up and grabbed for her purse. She hurried toward the hall and the side door of the school.
With a dwindling group of people, she emerged from the school onto the grass outside. Zehra searched the night for Mustafa. With the rain, it was difficult to see much of anything.
In a few minutes, she saw the lights from his car turn on and slice through the rain in the parking lot. She moved in the opposite direction. Started to walk quickly. She could beat him.
He was out of his car faster than she planned. Mustafa came toward her in long, graceful strides. “I am so sorry. Is this all right for you?” He had a rain jacket on with the hood pulled up, hiding his face. The lights from his car glistened on the bushes beside the school.
She avoided his face. “Sure. Let’s go. I’ve got a lot of work left to do tonight.”
He stopped her with both his hands on her arms. Black shadows hovered along the sides of the building. The rain drummed without interest and the fog rose around them. He looked down at her. “Thank you for your help tonight.”
Mixed emotions flooded through Zehra. His hands felt strong and confident and that scared her. Should she try to run? She glanced at him. “Hey, no problem.” When she tried to move past him, he held her firmly. She felt the rain seeping through her thick hair. Her face was wet.
“What is wrong?” His voice dropped to a lower register than Zehra’d ever heard before.
“Uh … nothing. I’ve got a lot of work … Hey, it’s raining.”
“Something is wrong.” He pushed her toward the bushes. “We will find out.”
“Let me go … please,” she pleaded.
His hair fell forward on either side of his face. Even in the dim light, she could see his eyes bulge and his nostrils flare. His arms started to shake in anger. “What did you do?” he demanded.
“Do? Nothing, I didn’t do anything.” Zehra twisted her body to the left and slipped from his grip. For a moment, they both were surprised. Then, she started to run down the sidewalk.
“Stop!” he bellowed and chased her. A few people stopped to look.
She screamed at them, “Help me.”
She picked up speed until her foot caught on one of the broken concrete slabs. She fell hard onto her side. With her face on the ground, she smelled pungent earth. Her arm hurt, and it was hard to breathe. Her face lay in wet grass.
Mustafa towered above her. He reached down and yanked her up. When she went limp, he dragged her
