“I remember Seth. He helped me last year when I was in training.”
“Another girl from the store is critical. They don’t know if she’ll make it. Two others suffered concussions and burns.”
“I’m so sorry, Drew.”
“When you find the guy who did this, you’d better not let me near him,” he told her.
Serena nodded. She’d already heard that sentiment over and over again. Among the police. Among the runners. Among the Duluth people who’d had their marathon stolen from them in the worst way possible.
In the swing, Michael fussed, and Drew slid him out of the harness. The rocking of his father’s arms quickly settled the boy. Drew was a small man, but he had an athlete’s strength. He wore runner’s shorts, a yellow soccer jersey, and sneakers without socks. His kinky, straw-colored hair was tied in a rubber band behind his head.
“Do you want to hold him?” he asked.
“I was ready to grab him as soon as I got here,” Serena replied, smiling.
She lifted Michael under his chubby shoulders and held him against her chest. He was warm and smelled clean and fresh, and he was already more boy than baby. She put out two fingers, and he grabbed them in a pincer grip. His eyes never left her face. She could see a strong reflection of Cat in his eyes.
She’d never thought of herself as maternal. There was little from her own childhood she wanted to remember. She’d run away from her mother after years of abuse. A teenage abortion had left her unable to have kids of her own, and she’d had to make peace with that part of her life. It wasn’t that she had regrets. She was forty, Stride was fifty; they’d already decided that they were beyond the age where they wanted to adopt. Even so, holding Michael in the hospital eight months ago had changed her. After that moment, she’d understood for the first time what it really meant to be willing to give up everything for another human being.
“He’s getting heavy,” she said.
“Twenty-one pounds. He’s crawling, too.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah. Nothing is safe.” Then Drew added, “How’s Cat doing?”
“Nothing is ever easy with her,” Serena said. “Has she been by to see you?”
“Not yet. She knows she’s welcome, doesn’t she? We’d like her to feel close to Michael and to play a role in his life. It’s not just talk. Krista and I both want her involved.”
“Stride and I keep encouraging her to visit,” Serena told him.
“Do you know why she’s reluctant? Does she regret giving him up?”
“It’s not that. She wanted to keep him, but she knew she wasn’t in a position to give him the life he deserved. She loves the idea that he has such a great family with you and Krista. I think she’s genuinely happy about that.”
“Then what?”
Serena shook her head. “I don’t think she believes she has anything to offer him right now.”
“That’s silly,” Drew said.
“I know. I’ve told her you and Krista don’t expect anything from her except love. It’s just something she has to come to in her own time.”
“Fair enough. I understand.”
“Cat was in Canal Park yesterday, too,” Serena said.
“Oh, my God. Is she okay?”
“Physically, fine, but she was very close to where the bomb went off. She feels guilty. She wonders why she was spared.”
Drew pushed the tree swing back and forth with one hand, even though it was empty. “I know how she feels. Krista and I both ran the marathon. I should have gone over to the store when I was done, but instead, we just hung out and drank beer in the finisher’s tent with our friends. If I’d gone back, I’d be dead. Instead, my employees paid the price for me.”
“Do I have to give you the speech I gave Cat?” Serena asked. “About none of this being your fault?”
“No, I get it. It’s just that the world feels pretty fragile today.”
“Yes, it does.”
“The FBI told me the bomb was in my store. Is that really true?”
“It is.”
“Unbelievable. Somehow that makes it even worse, you know? They let me inside this morning to assess the damage. It’s a total loss. All the inventory was destroyed. The space is unusable. I feel bad thinking about that, given what happened to my people, but it’s going to be hard to rebuild, even with insurance. Retail is always tough. We’ve been struggling to stay afloat despite a decent economy. But after this, I don’t know what happens to tourism around here.”
Serena thought: Every crime has ripple effects that people don’t see.
“Listen, Drew, I have to ask you a couple of questions,” she told him.
“Of course.”
“Did you have security cameras in the store?”
“We did, but the video archive was on a DVR near the register. I don’t think there was much left of it after the blast.”
“Did you talk to any of your people in the store after you finished the race?”
“Yes, Candice was in charge. I called her from the finisher’s tent. She said everything was fine. She was the one who told me to relax and not bother coming over to the store.”
“What time was that?” Serena asked.
“About eleven-thirty.”
“Did she mention anything out of the ordinary?”
“No, nothing.”
“How hard would it be to sneak a backpack into the store without being noticed?”
“In a camping store? Not hard at all. We’re more concerned with backpacks sneaking out of the store. Assuming the pack looked new, I doubt anyone would pay attention to it. Anybody could slide it off their shoulder and walk away.”
“Okay, that’s what I figured.”
“Sorry I can’t be more help.”
“I do have one other question. Last Tuesday evening, you called 911 because of a problem in the store. Something about a homeless man causing a disturbance. Can you tell me about it?”
“Oh, sure,” Drew said. “I felt bad, because I really didn’t want to get the guy into any trouble. I was more concerned that he should be in a hospital. Why are you asking about him?”
“I like to check out everything. What happened?”
“Well, this guy came into the store. It was pretty obvious he wasn’t a tourist. Let’s just say he smelled like he hadn’t seen a shower in a while. The staff and I were keeping an eye on him, because frankly, we thought he might be looking to do a little grab-and-go. He climbed up to the loft level, and the next thing I know, he’s screaming and rolling around on the ground, banging into fixtures, throwing merchandise. We ran up to calm him down, and I called 911, but before the cops arrived, the guy bolted.”
“Did he steal anything?” Serena asked.
“No.”
“Have you seen him in the store since then?”
“No.”
“What did he look like?”
“Medium-height. Forties. Beard, long brown hair, stocky build.”
Serena stood up and delivered Michael back into Drew’s arms. “Okay. Thanks for taking the time to talk to me. Tell Krista I said hi.”
“I will. Congratulations, by the way.”
“On what?”
“On finishing the marathon.”
“Oh.” Serena shrugged. “Thanks. The weird thing is, I almost forgot about it. Getting through the race doesn’t feel so important today.”
Drew shook his head. “Not true. Don’t let this asshole take it away from you. Finishing a marathon is a big deal.”
“You’re right. I appreciate the reminder.”
“Please tell Cat we’re serious. Krista and I would love it if she came to see Michael.”
“I will.”
Serena walked away toward the street.
She was thinking about the homeless man who’d caused an incident inside the store. It was probably nothing. The percentage of mental illness and addiction among the homeless was extremely high, and the out-of-control behavior Dre
w had described happened in public parks and detox centers every night. It wasn’t unusual.
Even so, it had happened inside the Duluth Outdoor Company shop, and so did the marathon bombing. Just four days later.
Two unusual events in the same place always got her attention.
She needed to find that man.
* * *
Fifty yards away, Cat sat by herself on the asphalt of an outdoor basketball court in an elementary school playground. She could see Serena and Drew Olson. In Drew’s arms, she could see Michael. Her baby. Her son.
Serena had told her she was going to see Drew, and she’d suggested that Cat come along. Cat had said no, she wasn’t ready. Then, after Serena left, she’d taken her own car and followed. It wasn’t the first time she’d hung out near the Olson house. Ever since the weather had gotten nice, she’d come over here a couple of times a week. Drew and Krista had a cute little matchbox home at the corner of Central and Elinor. The house was old, but they kept it well. It was next to the elementary school, which would work out nicely when Michael got older.
Sometimes Cat got lucky, and she’d see them playing with Michael in the yard or pushing him past the school grounds in a stroller. Sometimes she crept close enough to the house to hear their voices as they talked to him.
They loved him.
She’d done the right thing, letting them take her child.
She wished she could walk over there right now and hold him. Talk to him.
“Hi there. I’m your mom. I’m the reason you’re here, and you’re the one thing I did right in this whole world.”
But that wasn’t fair. Michael didn’t need a mother, because he already had one. He didn’t need a single thing that Cat could give him. Not one thing. He was better off never knowing where he came from.
Cat waited until Serena was gone, and then she walked down the alley behind the houses to her car. She didn’t look back.
13
Khan opened the door to Malik’s attic studio in the student house near UMD. The room smelled of the honey-scented candles that Malik liked to burn. One white plate sat on his desk, a puddle of ochre wax congealed in the center. An engineering book lay open next to a mug of cold tea and a square of sweet burfi. Behind his desk, next to the single window looking out on the alley, was a poster of championship Pakistani wrestlers. Malik, despite his scrawny physique, had never lost a wrestling match in high school. He knew how to turn an opponent’s greater size and strength to his own advantage.
Clothes lay on the wooden floor. His bedsheets were twisted. It was as if Malik had left in a hurry and would climb back up the steep stairs any minute now, but Khan knew he wouldn’t. He’d taken his prayer mat for salat. His Qur’an was missing from the table by his bed. Malik was gone.
Khan had only been there once before. Most of the time, when he and his friend met, it was at Khan’s house, or at the mosque on Friday, or in the parkland around Duluth where they could walk and talk privately. For the first time, he wondered if Malik had been protecting him from suspicion.
They’d met when Khan and Ahdia moved to Duluth. That was three years ago, when Malik was a student from Detroit who was also new in town. He was different then. Funny. Happy. For Khan, it was like seeing what his brother should have grown up to be. They’d become friends, and Khan could see a bright future for Malik. He was smart, an excellent student; he would be a professional, a builder of bridges and buildings.
Then, a year ago, things had changed.
Malik grew darker, as if he were living under a shadow. Where the two of them used to talk, they now argued. Malik became prone to hostile outbursts at the mosque. He began to disappear on weekends to Minneapolis and refused to talk about the people he met there. He spent hours on his laptop into the dead of night, making connections with Muslims around the world. The wrong kind of Muslims. Extremists.
They all talked about it in hushed voices. Everyone was afraid.
When Dawn Basch came to town, Malik went further than the others in his protests. He began to brag about the violent things he could do to her. It was the kind of talk that no one wanted to hear, because if word got out, it would bring down the hard hand of the FBI on the entire community.
And then, a week ago, Malik disappeared.
A day ago, a bomb tore open the city.
Khan studied the room for answers. He yanked open each drawer in his friend’s desk, which overflowed with cables and circuit boards and engineering newsletters. He overturned Malik’s wastebasket onto the floor and sifted through the garbage. He found food wrappers and an empty can of sweetened milk. A pencil, worn down to a nub. Clippings from Malik’s beard.
And a brochure.
A brochure for the marathon. Map. Race times. Locations.
Khan dropped the brochure as if it were a hot coal. He told himself that half the homes in Duluth had that same brochure. It was in perfect condition. The brochure had no markings or folds to make him think that Malik had studied it in detail. It meant nothing.
Unless it meant everything.
He thought about seeing Malik in the forest near his house. I’ve dedicated my life to something else now.
Khan faced a choice. Talk to the police and tell them his suspicions. Or walk away and stay uninvolved. Ahdia had told him he shouldn’t be there at all. He was leaving fingerprints behind; he was putting himself at risk. Once the whirlwind started, it sucked up everyone in a torrent of dust and debris, innocent or not. And yet here he was.
Malik was a friend, but murder was murder. If Malik was guilty, Khan couldn’t stay silent.
But was Malik guilty?
Khan spotted a pair of jeans on the floor. He grabbed them by the cuffs and turned them upside down and shook them. Coins sprinkled out of the pockets. A crumpled dollar bill. A receipt for ice cream. He picked up the receipt and saw that it was from the Cold Stone Creamery shop in Canal Park.
Three doors down from the Duluth Outdoor Company. Oh, Malik, Malik, Malik.
He told himself: It was ice cream. Malik had a sweet tooth. It meant nothing.
Or it meant everything.
Khan saw that something else had spilled from Malik’s pockets. Something shiny, no more than an inch long, like a bright, tiny thread. He got down on all fours and delicately retrieved it between his thumb and middle finger. What he saw made him want to cry. Sweat bloomed on his neck and face and made his glasses slip.
It was a piece of copper wire.
As Khan held the wire in his fingers, he heard something below him, and his eyes shot to the doorway of Malik’s apartment in horror.
Someone was coming up the stairs.
* * *
“I met your brother once,” Stride told Agent Durkin as they crossed College Street from the UMD campus.
Durkin swept her sunglasses off her face. “You met Ron? When?”
“A year before he was killed. He was part of a volunteer team trying to live-trap an injured bobcat. He stumbled onto the body of a missing hiker in the woods.”
“I remember that. Ron was freaked out. He was sensitive about things like that.”
“It was big news around here when he was killed in Paris,” Stride told her. “When I saw his picture in the News-Tribune, I remembered talking to him during the investigation. I liked him. He was a nice kid.”
Durkin’s face, which was normally as hard and expressionless as marble, softened. “Yeah, that was Ron.”
“Anyway, I just wanted to tell you I was sorry. Losing family is never easy.”
“No, it’s not.” She put her sunglasses back on, and just like that, her mask was back. “I guess you know about my screwup with that Somali kid. Don’t worry about me, though, Stride. I’ve got things under control now.”
“I’m sure you do.” But he wasn’t sure at all.
“Do you think I’m biased against Muslims?” Durkin asked.
“I don’t know. Are you?”
“Look, what’s in my heart is my business. As lon
g as my feelings don’t get in the way of the job, then there’s no problem. I’m good at what I do. That’s all that matters.”
They walked through a neighborhood of square green lawns and modest houses dating back to the 1920s. Old trees overhung the street. Stride shoved his hands into his pockets.
“How old are you, Durkin?” he asked.
“Thirty-three. Why? Do you think I’m too young?”
“Not at all. Thirty-three is a good age for a lot of things. When I was thirty-three, I knew everything. I knew a hell of a lot more than my bosses, that’s for sure. It pissed me off that they didn’t realize it.”
“Funny,” Durkin replied sourly. “I get it.”
“What makes you think I’m joking?” Stride asked. “I was pretty damn smart back then.”
Durkin finally laughed. “Yeah, okay. I know a lack of confidence isn’t exactly my problem. Sorry. If you show weakness around the FBI boys, they eat you alive.”
“Don’t apologize for it. Maggie is the same way. There’s nothing wrong with being cocky if you can back it up. And believe me, I wasn’t kidding. Getting older hasn’t made me smarter. It’s more like the reverse. Now I have a lot more respect for everything I don’t know.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Like how to separate my heart from my job,” Stride told her. “I can’t be a cop without being a human being, too. My feelings get in the way all the time. But if you’ve figured out how to do it, Durkin, then good for you.”
Durkin said nothing at all. He hadn’t expected to reach her, and he didn’t.
They got to the end of the block, and the FBI agent checked her phone and said in a stony voice, “This is the alley. Malik Noon lives down here. Let’s go.”
The alley was cracked and patched over with shovelfuls of asphalt. Greenery made a wall on their left, growing up to the height of the telephone wires. On their right, they passed detached garages and postage-stamp backyards. Halfway down the alley, Durkin pointed at a two-story house with peeling pink paint. Four cars squeezed onto the narrow lot next to a collapsing fence. A plastic lawn chair and rusted charcoal grill sat forlornly in the long grass. In the driveway, Stride noticed a yellow cab that was several years old but as clean as if it had just come off the manufacturing line.
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