Marathon

by Brian Freeman

  Her eyes welled with tears. “Don’t talk like that. Don’t even say that.”

  “I’m sorry, but I just want you to understand why this is so hard for me. You haven’t been to the rallies when Dawn was speaking and seen the faces of the protesters. The hatred in their eyes? It’s unbelievable. That’s what I saw in the guy who passed me. That’s what I remember. Hatred. He heard me talking about No Exceptions, and he deliberately slammed into me. I know that’s what happened.”

  His wife sighed and closed her eyes. “I just wish—”

  “What?”

  Alison shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “Tell me,” he insisted.

  “I just wish you hadn’t gotten so caught up in Dawn Basch and this whole No Exceptions crowd. They make me uncomfortable.”

  He sat up in his chair. “What are you saying? This is her fault?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Dawn is defending free speech and the Constitution. Nobody else is standing up for the First Amendment. They’re all too politically correct to say anything. For God’s sake, these people riot and murder over cartoons, Alison.”

  Alison sat up, too, and put a hand on his knee. “All I’m saying is that the whole city got a lot angrier after Dawn Basch came to town. You got a lot angrier. I don’t think that’s a good thing.”

  “Some things are worth getting angry about,” Michael snapped.

  He got up and walked away, leaving Alison on the porch. She called after him, but he slammed the door. A feeling of uselessness washed over him. Throughout his life, he’d needed a cause, but his business was gone, and he’d found nothing to fill the void.

  Michael climbed the stairs to the master bedroom, but he wasn’t ready to sleep. He took the twisting iron staircase up to the half floor at the top of the house, where he kept his man cave. The small space was paneled in dark wood under a low, angled roof. Wet bar. Framed Vikings posters. High school and college swimming trophies. A television the size of Wyoming. His desk and computer.

  He booted up his Mac, and he scrolled through his Twitter feed again. Yes, the people out there were angry, but they spoke his language. They didn’t need the police and the government to tell them what had happened at the marathon. They already knew.

  He could see the reflection of his face in the monitor. Alison was right; his expression looked chiseled in stone.

  Michael tapped on his keyboard and tweeted under his handle @malvileo:

  I was there. Think I saw the guy. What’s the site where everyone is posting marathon photos?

  Ten seconds later, a user named @danmink59 replied.

  diggitt.com. Go get him, man. #noexceptions

  Michael found the website, where a link to the cache of uploaded photos was in a banner on the home page. A counter kept track of the users accessing the site. Thousands of online detectives were already examining photos, all of them showing places he knew intimately, taken along every mile of the marathon route.

  He went to the wet bar and made coffee. He needed caffeine for the long night ahead of him. He clicked on the first photo and zoomed in on the faces, and he studied them one by one.

  He was looking for a man with a backpack.

  A terrorist.

  Where are you?

  9

  Stride waited in the parkland by the olive-colored waters of Chester Creek, near the bridge at Skyline Parkway. At dusk, the area was empty and silent, except for whispers in the dense trees. The cool wind rustled his wavy hair. By instinct, he reached for a pack of cigarettes in his pocket, but he’d quit long ago. The craving came back at moments like this, when he was alone after a long, difficult day. His middle and index fingers rubbed together, as if a Lucky Strike were still between them.

  He checked the time on his phone. Haq was late.

  They usually met here, down the hill from the dormitories of UMD, where Haq Al-Masri was a professor of religion and the faculty advisor to the Muslim Student Center. Haq didn’t like to be seen with Stride; he couldn’t afford to be perceived as a spy in his community. It had taken Stride three years to win the man’s confidence, but trust was a fragile thing, particularly in the current climate. They both knew they served different masters. Haq was a Muslim first, and Stride was a cop first.

  As he waited, he texted Serena. Is Cat okay?

  His wife texted back almost immediately. She’s struggling.

  Stride frowned. Serena had told him about Cat and the stolen beret, a stupid act of rebellion that had saved the girl’s life. It took his breath away, to know how close she’d been to the bomb, to know how easily it could have gone another way.

  Does she remember anything?

  Cat had been there when the bomb went off. On the way into Canal Park, she probably passed the bomber, escaping in the opposite direction as the timer ticked toward zero. It took Serena a long time to write back. He wondered if she was irritated with him for pushing the question so quickly. Then finally she replied: No, Cat didn’t see anyone suspicious.

  He texted: I had to ask.

  She wrote back: I know that. And then she added: Maggie called me. So the device was inside the Duluth Outdoor Company shop?

  Looks that way.

  Her next message was delayed again, but finally, she wrote back: Something happened at that store a few days ago. Do you remember? A homeless man caused a disturbance. Cops had to be called.

  He remembered the incident. So?

  She wrote back: It’s an odd coincidence.

  That was true, and Stride normally didn’t trust coincidences, but for the moment, he didn’t see a plausible connection between the two events. He heard footsteps on the grass and looked over his shoulder and saw Haq jogging into the park. Without looking at Stride, the man slowed to a walk and checked the pulse in his neck. Haq took a squirt of water from a plastic bottle on his belt.

  Stride texted: I have to go.

  Haq approached the bench. Sweat and cologne clouded the air. When Haq wasn’t running, he was cycling; when he wasn’t cycling, he was lifting weights. He was a dark, handsome man, in his mid-thirties, the kind of teacher who caught the eye of college undergrads but who never looked back. He had a shock of jet-black hair and a prominent, aquiline nose. His skin was like gold, except for the neat line of his beard. He wore a black UMD long-sleeved T-shirt and nylon running pants.

  Stride didn’t think he’d ever seen Haq smile or laugh; the man was relentlessly serious. He was smart, too, with an encyclopedic knowledge from his academic studies. Over the years, they’d discussed religion, philosophy, politics, and the Constitution. They brought opposite values to nearly every debate, but they’d found a way to be civil with each other and to respect their disagreements. The only thing he disliked about Haq was that the man could never quite shake the elitism of his upbringing, as if he still looked down on everyone else around him. He’d grown up in Egypt and now held dual citizenship. His father had a senior post in the Egyptian embassy in Washington, D.C.

  Haq sat down on the other side of the bench. “I knew you’d be calling,” he said.

  He had a high-pitched, slightly singsong voice, and although his English was perfect, he retained a Middle Eastern accent.

  Stride heard the veiled accusation and felt bitterness coiled in the man’s body. Impatience. Exasperation at knowing that Stride would knock on his door. It wasn’t entirely misplaced.

  “When Americans see a house on fire, they assume it must be dragons,” Haq went on. “Muslim dragons.”

  Stride let the silence linger, but then he said, “This is your house, too.”

  “Yes, I’m aware.”

  “Did you see the FBI press conference?” Stride asked. “The Special Agent in Charge was clear that the investigation is wide open. We don’t know if this was terrorism. If it was, we don’t know who’s behind it.”

  “Tell that to the president.”

  “I’m not a politician, Haq,” Stride said.

  “And yet here you a
re, Jonathan.”

  “I’m just covering all the bases.”

  “Please. You’re looking for dragons. It doesn’t matter what the FBI says or doesn’t say, or what the president says or doesn’t say. A bomb explodes, and Muslims are guilty until proven innocent. We are all guilty, every one of us. You accuse us of not sharing American values, but at the first sign of trouble, you jettison those values yourself.”

  “People were murdered, Haq. People had their limbs blown off. This was a heinous crime.”

  “I know that. It’s an awful, awful thing. I’m not minimizing the horror or pain of those affected. However, for us, for my community, I know what comes next. While you’re looking for evidence, I’m looking for pitchforks in the village square. They’ll be coming for us. Haven’t recent events made that clear?”

  “I understand your concerns,” Stride said. “You know I appreciate your honesty and directness. One thing we’ve never done is play games with each other.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So now I’m going to be honest and direct with you,” Stride went on.

  Haq looked back over his shoulder for the first time, and their eyes met in the semidarkness. “Go ahead.”

  “Your community has more than its share of dragons,” Stride told him.

  Haq didn’t protest or get angry. Instead, he dug into the zippered pocket of his sweats and removed a flat object wrapped in cloth. He unfolded the cloth and held up a runner’s medal by its ribbon.

  “See this? I ran the marathon last year. And the year before. I would have run it again this year, but I spent months leading an effort to educate the Muslim community about the marathon and to get more Muslim runners involved. I recruited more than forty runners from the five-state region and arranged housing and transport this weekend. I coordinated with everyone at the race. I saw this as a way to bring us together, Jonathan. To focus on what we share instead of what divides us. And then this happens, and where do we end up? Even farther apart.”

  Stride hated what came next. He didn’t like it, but he had no choice.

  “These people you brought in—” he began.

  This time, Haq exploded. His fist slammed down on the bench. He leaped to his feet, and his voice was loud in the peacefulness of the park. “What, you want their names? Their addresses?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “So you can interrogate them! For what? What’s their crime? Running while Muslim? These people did nothing. They came here to run twenty-six-point-two miles from Two Harbors to Duluth. For most people, that would be an amazing thing. For us, apparently, it’s nothing but probable cause.”

  Stride stood up, too. “I’d like to say we live in a perfect world, but we don’t. There hasn’t been much peace around here lately, and a lot of the unrest has to do with religious differences. I can’t ignore that.”

  “You mean since Dawn Basch came to town?” Haq asked. “And whose fault is that?”

  “No one in city government welcomed or encouraged her, but we also can’t stop her from holding a private conference. You know that. She can say whatever she wants. That’s her right. It doesn’t mean you have to listen.”

  “So we should ignore her? We should just laugh when she insults and degrades us? Well, I’m sorry, but to us, it isn’t funny. Think about it, Jonathan. You’re married to a lovely woman. I’ve met Serena. Now imagine someone came to town and got in your face and screamed at you that your wife was a pig. A whore. I think you’d be angry about that.”

  “You’re right. I would.”

  “Would you strike back? Would you punch whoever said that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. But that’s my point, Haq. People lose control. There’s a lot of anger in Duluth because of Dawn Basch. More than anger. Rage. The question is whether someone decided to act on that rage. I know you. You have your ears to the ground. Everyone talks to you. Is there anyone that the community was worried about?”

  Haq held the race medal in his palm. He balanced it on his hand as if measuring its weight.

  “When this Dawn Basch tweets, she also uses the hashtag #islamismurder,” he said in measured tones. “People talk about #noexceptions as if she’s defending free speech, but that’s not what she means. When she says #islamismurder and #noexceptions together, she is saying that every Muslim is a killer.”

  “You’re probably right,” Stride replied.

  “You think no one else feels anger? That we’re the only ones with extremists in our midst? We’re not. Now, because of the bombing, the rage of Basch’s bigots will get turned against us even more. Mark my words. It always does.”

  “And I’ll do everything in my power to stop that. You know me.”

  “One man can’t stop a tidal wave,” Haq said.

  “Then the best thing right now is to find out who did this,” Stride told him. “Maybe this happened because of Dawn Basch, and maybe it had nothing to do with her. I don’t know. Until we get the truth, we’ll be fighting rumors and speculation, and that’s dangerous for all of us.”

  Haq sat down. Silence lingered between them. Crickets chirped in the weeds. “I hate this,” Haq said finally.

  “I understand, but I need your help.”

  “I could ruin an innocent man’s life.”

  “If he’s innocent, I won’t let that happen,” Stride told him.

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

  “Then I’ll do my best.”

  Stride wondered if that was enough. Haq hesitated, and he looked around to make sure they were alone. He lowered his voice.

  “All right, fine. You’re right, everyone is angry about Basch, but one young man—well, he’s been saying things that frightened some of us. We were all conscious of the fact that marathon day was coming. It’s hard not to think about Boston.”

  “You should have talked to me,” Stride said. “Warned me.”

  “I’m sorry. We decided to deal with it ourselves. We wanted to counsel him, not have him arrested.”

  “That was foolish.”

  “Perhaps, but we’ve seen what happens when the police get involved. Naïve, reckless talk becomes the basis for federal charges, and just like that, you put someone away for years.”

  “Who’s the young man?” Stride asked. “And where is he?”

  “I don’t know where he is. He disappeared a few days ago. That’s what worried us. We’ve been trying to find him.”

  “And his name?”

  “His name is Malik,” Haq replied.

  10

  The parasail floated high above the turquoise waters off Key West, making the people on the beach seem no larger than the bugs that Wade Ralston hunted in the subbasements of Duluth. He heard nothing but wind, but even at this height, the Florida air was warm. A single, slim tether connected him to the boat, which was churning ripples and white water in its wake. Being up here made Wade feel on top of the world, like the king of an infinite domain. Like a god.

  However, good things always came to an end.

  He felt the winch dragging him downward to the boat. Back to reality. The Gulf got bigger and closer, full of reefs and sand and shadows. His three friends waited for him.

  Travis, meaty and tall, with long brown hair and tattoos covering both arms.

  Travis’s sister, Shelly, looking pudgy in her one-piece bathing suit as she sucked a fruity drink through a straw.

  And Wade’s wife, Joni, hoisted on Travis’s shoulders, swaying as she tried to keep her camera steady.

  Joni was ridiculously hot in her string bikini. Joni, with the breast implants he considered one of the best investments he’d made in his whole life. Joni, blond, twenty-eight years old, who made every male head snap around as she walked by. Short, skinny Wade Ralston—Wade the bug zapper with the comb-over—had the hottest wife in the Keys. He’d dreamed of saying that every day since he was a teenager in high school.

  The three of them waved with their arms over their heads. Grinned. Laughed.
Pointed. He drifted closer to the boat, and he could hear their voices shouting at him.

  “Wade! Wade! Wade!”

  “Cross the line! Cross the line!”

  Huh? That didn’t make sense.

  And then—snap.

  The tether broke like a guitar string. He was free. The parachute ballooned behind him, dragging him back to the sky. He shouted for help, but it was as if no one in the boat cared that he wasn’t coming down, that he was unmoored, that he had no way to land. They laughed, watching him as he disappeared, turning and twisting lazily on the ripples of air. The island grew small; the water became a sea, far below him. He sailed up and up toward the clouds.

  “Wade?”

  Up and up, spinning and rising, growing dizzy . . .

  “Wade?”

  He awoke with a violent start. He blinked, and the Key West sky vanished from his brain. He was warm, because the hospital room was warm. The tether was a tube that tied him to a plastic bag hung on a metal pole, from which IV fluids dripped into his vein. It was dark in Duluth outside the St. Luke’s window, and the lights in the room were low. He could see his bruised, swollen feet.

  Someone said again, “Wade?”

  Travis Baker stood at the end of his hospital bed, but Wade wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t.

  “Travis?” he murmured. “What the hell, man?”

  “Hey.”

  Travis was really there. It wasn’t another dream. His friend’s voice was subdued, which wasn’t like Travis at all. Travis was loud. He was loud when he was sober and when he was drunk. He was loud when he got into fights and when he squeezed into utility tunnels to check the bait in a rat trap. But not now. Now Wade could hardly hear him.

  “Jesus, you’re alive,” Wade said. “We’re both alive.”

  “Yeah.”

  Most people would be happy to be alive, but Travis didn’t look happy. His face was wet with tears, and Travis Baker never cried. Extermination wasn’t for the sentimental. Poisoning creatures for a living didn’t get you a TV movie on the Hallmark Channel.

  “They say they dug shrapnel out of my stomach. I was in surgery?”