And then blackness again.
“Gun!” she screamed in warning. “He has a gun!”
Almost instantly, a shot cracked, its noise bouncing off the trees and headstones. Durkin dropped her flashlight and whipped her own gun into her hand and spun back to the fence. The aftereffects of lightning bloomed like orange neon in her eyes. Rain made a waterfall down her face.
“Light it up!” she shouted at the police as they got out of their cruisers. And then, to the darkness: “Rashid! Don’t move! Drop the gun!”
Another shot rose above the storm.
Everyone ducked. Durkin took cover behind a tree, but in the next second, she twisted, squatted, and aimed through the fence. Swirling red light reached into the graveyard. The trees loomed like giants, and the headstones were squat soldiers. She saw Rashid, and she squeezed off a shot.
He began to fall.
Durkin fired again.
***
The first shot from the police officer missed but left Khan frozen in place.
He tried to move, but his muscles refused his brain’s command. He heard the wail of police sirens and saw the carnival of red lights break up the darkness. And still he stood in the rain, his jaw slack, his arms and legs paralyzed, as the police officer in front of him fired again, his bullet missing wildly.
But Khan’s luck was running out.
The next shot came from behind him. It was so close that he heard it buzz his head and whine in his ear like a mosquito. Finally, he threw himself to the ground, just as another shot hit the marble of a headstone and ricocheted into the night.
Khan slithered forward. He snaked past the line of graves, where the stones protected him. He shoved his glasses back onto his face, and the night took focus. He crawled faster, and he thought about shouting, “Don’t shoot, stop shooting!” Instead, he kept his silence and pushed along the wet ground.
The cop in front of him had vanished.
He was just gone.
Behind him, Khan heard the noise of others leaping the fence, heading his way. He got to his feet, but he ran only two steps before he tripped and fell. When he looked sideways on the ground, he saw the face of a police officer staring at him, eyes wide, mouth open, mud on his cheek and chin.
A bullet hole bled in a single trickle down the middle of his forehead.
The cop was dead. Young, helpless, shot dead. Khan didn’t understand. Who killed him? How did it happen?
It didn’t matter. He couldn’t stay here; he had only seconds to escape. The police lights sweeping the ground hadn’t found him yet. His ankle and his injuries didn’t slow him down. He picked himself up, and he ran through the cemetery the way a deer runs, panicked and fast, and the night swallowed him up.
21
Ahdia hummed as she tucked Pak into bed. The boy was asleep practically as soon as his head sank into the pillow. She envied that kind of innocent sleep. She was a worrier, letting everything keep her up in the middle of the night. Her job. Money. Her husband and the strangers in his cab. Her fears for her child and the kind of world he would inherit.
She turned off the light. She left a CD of songs by Pakistani singer Hadiqa Kiani playing softly, because Pak liked her music, and she hoped it gave him good dreams.
The grandfather clock in the living room ticked loudly, counting off seconds. The chimes rang every half hour overnight, reminding her of how long she lay awake. She wished Khan would sell it, but something about the dusty old clock appealed to him. Khan, like Pak, slept well, except when the occasional nightmare took him back to his childhood. On those nights, she would comfort him with her head on his chest, until the past gave up its grip on him.
She returned to the kitchen. She still had baking to do. It surprised her that Khan wasn’t back with the coconut yet. The market wasn’t far, and he’d left a long time ago, but she also knew that Khan had a soft heart. If someone spotted his cab and needed a ride, he’d be right there to take them home, even if it meant going halfway across the city in the rain and the darkness.
Then a sharp knock on their back door startled her. Khan never came in through the back; besides, he always had his keys. She pushed aside the flowered curtain on the window, and when she saw the man on their back porch, she opened the door immediately, letting him in along with an ocean of rain.
“Haq,” she said. “What are you doing here? Why did you come to the back door?”
Ahdia knew Haq Al-Masri well. Every Muslim in Duluth did. He often gave the Friday sermon at the mosque, and he was an unofficial spokesman when Islam was in the news, as it too often was. He was a handsome man, like Khan, although Haq had more ego and liked to show off his professor’s intellect. Even so, he’d been the first to welcome them when they moved to the city and to make sure they felt a part of the community.
“I parked on the dirt road on Hubbell and came through the trees,” Haq told her.
“What on earth for?”
Haq didn’t explain. “Is Khan here? Did he make it home?”
“No, he went to the market. I expect him any minute now.” Then she saw the look on Haq’s face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Have you seen the news?”
“No, why? Is it Malik?”
“Worse,” Haq replied. “There’s no time to explain. We need to get you away from here. Put some things in a small bag, and then we must take Pak and go.”
“Go? What are you talking about? Haq, tell me what’s going on.”
He sighed in impatience. “Turn off your living room lights, and then look out the front window.”
Ahdia hesitated, but she obeyed. She darkened the front room and peered carefully from one side of the curtains. At the curb, on both sides of the street, she saw police cars with their lights off. Under the streetlight, she saw a uniformed cop behind the wheel of one of the cars. He was studying her house and speaking into his radio.
“Police!” she said. “What do they want with us?”
“They want Khan,” Haq replied.
Ahdia cupped her hands over her chin. “They found out he was at the marathon? They think he’s the bomber!”
“Yes, some fool posted a picture of Khan in Canal Park before the explosion. He says he saw Khan carrying a backpack.”
“Khan doesn’t own a backpack!” Ahdia protested.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s too late. Dawn Basch spread the picture around the city. There was an incident at the market. Someone saw Khan and tried to stop him from leaving. They fought.”
“They fought? Is Khan okay? Where is he?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t heard more since then. I came over here immediately.”
Ahdia shook her head. “Haq, this is crazy. Khan is innocent.”
“There are no innocent Muslims the day after a bomb goes off! You know that. Ahdia, people at the market claimed that Khan had a gun. Is that true?”
“Khan with a gun? Nonsense. Khan never held a gun in his whole life.”
Haq shook his head. “Even so, the police are treating him as armed and dangerous.”
“We have to find him!” Ahdia said.
“Right now, we have to get you and Pak away from here. Otherwise, the police will take you and interrogate you. And this house isn’t safe. Basch is stoking the flames with her mob. We need to find somewhere for you and Pak to hide. Tomorrow we can find a lawyer, and we can try to clear Khan’s name.”
Ahdia stared at Haq through the shadows of the living room. She thought: This is how it happens. This is how the innocent become guilty. A stone rolls downhill, and soon it’s going so fast, it cannot be stopped.
She glanced at the doorway to her son’s bedroom and saw Pak sleepily wiping his eyes. “Mama, I heard voices.”
“It’s Uncle Haq,” she told him. “He came for a visit.”
Pak’s face brightened as he saw Haq, who marched into the bedroom and scooped the boy into his arms. “Would you like to go on an adventure?” Haq asked. “Do you have the heart of a ti
ger in the jungle?”
Pak was immediately awake. “Yes!”
“Good. I knew I could count on your courage. The three of us will head into the woods, and you will be a brave hero like Amir Hamza!”
“Will Papa come, too?”
“Very soon. He will be with us very soon.”
Ahdia stared at her son, who beamed in Haq’s arms. She cast another glance toward the street, where the police waited.
“All right, Haq, whatever you say,” she murmured wearily.
Haq gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s the best thing. Now hurry. We should be gone in two minutes, no more. Take only a couple of things for you and the boy.”
“My phone?”
“Take it with you, but turn it off.”
“But what if Khan tries to call?” she asked.
“If your phone is on, they can track you. They’ll find you wherever we go.”
Ahdia squeezed her plump lips into a thin white line. The rose of her cheeks was gone. She grabbed her phone from the coffee table and turned it off.
She was ready to go in less than a minute. She always kept a travel bag ready on a shelf in their closet. Somehow, she’d known that a day might come when they would have to leave their lives behind that way. It was one of the things that kept her awake in the nights.
With a cloth bag over her shoulder, Ahdia turned off the last of the house lights, and then she, Pak, and Haq crept out the back door into the storm and made their way toward the safety of the trees.
* * *
Khan ran and ran.
He escaped from Forest Hill southward into the wooded streets and picked his way undetected through the backyards of houses. Behind him, he heard overlapping sirens, wailing and moaning as if they were calling out his name. He ran until the noise of the police cars faded behind the rain. He lost track of the streets and the direction he was going, but the downward slope of the hills told him he was headed toward the lake.
When he finally stopped to catch his breath, he found himself near a Christian church on the northeast end of Superior Street. It was built of red brick and had a sharp white steeple. He’d been here once before, during an interfaith dinner.
The sign that faced the street said: Give me your hand.
To Khan, in despair, that felt like an invitation. The church was dark, but he dragged himself up the driveway, staying close to the trees, and at the back of the church, Allah smiled on him. The rear door was unlocked.
He let himself inside into the darkness. He wouldn’t stay long. He didn’t know whether churches had alarms to warn of intruders. He took a chance by flicking a light switch, and when his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he found a church office with a phone on the oak desk.
Khan dialed his home number. It rang and rang with no answer. He hung up and dialed Ahdia’s cell phone, but it went straight to her voice mail. Somehow, he realized, she knew what had happened to him, and she’d fled. That was good, but it left him alone, hunted, with nowhere to go.
He had another number in his head.
It was a number to use only in emergencies, but if this wasn’t an emergency, nothing in the world was.
Khan dialed, and a familiar voice answered immediately. The voice of a friend who would drop everything to be there for him.
“Malik? It’s me. I need help.”
@mnwoodsygal tweeted:
SHOTS FIRED in Woodland area of Duluth. Heard the bombing suspect was spotted and is on the run.
@jeandulhut12 tweeted:
Wow! Sirens everywhere near UMD. I think every cop car in Duluth is here.
@jmbarker61 tweeted:
Got a sister in DPD. She says officer down. Asshole shot a cop. Hope they blow his brains out. :-(
@dawnbasch tweeted:
Duluth needs justice. The Muslim bomber is now a COP KILLER.
#marathon
#islamismurder
#noexceptions
2,261 people retweeted @dawnbasch
MONDAY
22
Stride found Dawn Basch in the lobby of the Radisson Hotel, where she sipped takeout coffee and took dainty bites from a blueberry scone. Her face was mostly hidden by large sunglasses. He noticed two private security guards stationed nearby, watching the hotel entrances.
The overnight storm had passed. Outside the hotel, Monday morning had dawned clear and sunny, and the high temperature was headed for the eighties. It looked like a beautiful day on the outside, but looks could be deceiving.
He took a seat next to her. “Good morning, Ms. Basch.”
She folded up the copy of the Duluth News Tribune she was reading. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone with longer fingernails.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” she said. “My condolences on the loss of one of your officers. What a terrible tragedy.”
Stride worked hard to keep his anger off his face. If there was one person he blamed for the events that had led to Dennis Kenzie’s death, it was Dawn Basch. With nothing but a Twitter account, she’d provided the match and the fire that had consumed the young officer.
“Have you apprehended this man Rashid yet?” she asked.
“No.”
“All these police everywhere, and one terrorist outsmarts them.”
He took a deep breath but didn’t take the bait. He didn’t want an argument with Dawn Basch. He wanted to say what he needed to say and move on.
“Special Agent Maloney and I have a request,” he told her.
“Oh?”
“We’d appreciate it if you would refrain from tweeting about the investigation while we have an active and dangerous situation in the city. We want people to remain calm and not put themselves in harm’s way.”
Basch pinched a chunk of scone between her fingers and popped it into her mouth. She brushed crumbs from her red skirt.
“More political correctness,” she said. “Didn’t the election teach you that people are sick of being told what they can and can’t say because it might offend somebody? The president calls it the way he sees it on Twitter. So do I, and I don’t intend to stop.”
“I’m not trying to censor you, Ms. Basch,” Stride continued. “I’m simply appealing to your good judgment. The city is on edge. We don’t need to give a green light to vigilantes or inflame emotions any more than they already are. That’s how people get hurt.”
“What you call vigilantes I call engaged citizens. They found the bomber for you, didn’t they? And then the police let him get away.”
“We don’t have any actual evidence yet that Khan Rashid was involved in the marathon bombing.”
Basch removed her sunglasses. Her eyes were cold. “Other than a dead cop?”
Stride felt his fingers tighten like vises around the arms of the chair.
“The situation last night got out of control, Ms. Basch, and, speaking candidly, you played a role in making that happen. You practically invited your followers to attack Rashid.”
“I did no such thing,” she replied. “I’m not responsible for the way frustrated people behave, but I’m not going to blame them for wanting to do something. If radical Muslims start worrying about ordinary Americans fighting back, maybe they’ll think twice and look for softer targets somewhere else. Or maybe they’ll go home, where they belong.”
Stride stood up.
“Mob revenge isn’t justice,” he reminded her. “You may be fond of saying ‘no exceptions’ about free speech, but inciting people to violence actually is an exception. Please be careful that you don’t cross the line.”
“Congratulations, Lieutenant,” Basch replied acidly. “The terrorists blow things up and murder people, and you waste your time trying to stifle my Constitutional rights. Well, I won’t be silenced by murderers, and I won’t be silenced by local government officials, either. Remember, Washington is on my side now.”
“Goodbye, Ms. Basch.”
Stride walked away, but Basch stood up and called after him. “Lieutenant?”
&nbs
p; He turned and waited for her as she walked up to him.
“Do you want to know what I believe?” she asked. “Do you want to know why I do what I do?”
He didn’t answer, but she told him anyway.
“I believe this country is at war. We are in a war with Islam for the future of civilization, and either we win or we lose. There’s no middle ground. No room for compromise. Believe me, there is no such thing as an innocent Muslim, because when they’re forced to choose, they will choose their side over ours. Count on it. So we have our own choice to make. All of us. If we huddle in our homes like sheep, then we lose. The only ones who ever win a war are the wolves.”
* * *
When Cat didn’t return from her morning jog after two hours, Serena got into her Mustang and went to find her. She drove down the narrow strip of land called the Point, with the calm waters of the harbor on her right and the dunes of Lake Superior on her left. The road ended in a children’s park, which was empty except for dozens of seagulls bathing in the puddles left behind by the night’s storm.
She spotted Cat on a green bench by the bayside beach, her legs tucked beneath her. The teenager stared at the water, and strands of her long brown hair spilled across her face with the breeze.
Serena parked her Mustang and walked through the sand. She sat down next to Cat, but the girl didn’t react. “Hey.”
Cat said nothing.
She had a luminous face despite her sad eyes. It wasn’t just the ordinary prettiness of youth; she was a beautiful girl on her way to becoming a beautiful woman. When she smiled, she lit up the whole house, but she didn’t smile nearly enough. People had said the same thing about Serena at that age. You could walk away from your past, but it had a way of trailing behind you, like a shadow.
“I went to see Drew Olson yesterday,” Serena told her. “I saw Michael, too.”
Cat’s eyes were fixed on the water. “I know. I saw you.”
“You were there, too? Why didn’t you come over?”
The girl shrugged. “I’m not ready.”
“Drew said to make sure you know you’re welcome.”
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