And now Joni was gone. Dead.
And Shelly had lost her legs.
Travis couldn’t believe it. Saturday morning his life had been perfect, and with one big bang, it all went away. He didn’t know what would happen next. It would be weeks before Shelly could work again. Or months. Or maybe not ever. Travis didn’t even know how long he’d have a job himself. Maybe Wade would open the business again, or maybe he’d kiss off the Duluth winters and move to Key West. That was where he always said he wanted to be. It’s not like anybody wanted to squirm through a tunnel, laying down traps and poison. The only reason you did it was for the money.
Travis popped open the rear doors of the van. He needed to load up. Tomorrow was Tuesday, and Wade figured the city would be open for business again, regardless of whether they’d caught the Muslim bomber. Time to make the rounds on their accounts. Zap more bugs. Haul out the gray bodies of the rats. This was what he did every day, but suddenly it felt hollow and empty to be there alone. His chest felt heavy. He left the garage and watched the breeze blow in ripples across the huge lawn. He couldn’t see another house beyond the fields, just trees. Wade liked his privacy.
Travis walked to the main house. The door was unlocked. Nobody locked their doors up here. Inside, he went to the kitchen, where Wade kept a special refrigerator just for beer. He popped a can of Bent Paddle and sat down at the table. The house was dead quiet, but he could hear voices in his head, like echoes. He could smell Joni’s perfume, which reminded him of a fresh apple blossom. He sat there drinking, and tears ran down his face. Big fat tears like he hadn’t cried since his parents died.
He finished his beer and crushed the can in his fist. He imagined having his hands around somebody’s throat.
Travis went back to the garage and the van. He started loading up poison again. Was that all there was? Life goes on? Joni gets killed, Shelly can’t walk, and he was just supposed to go back to work like nothing was different? That wasn’t right. He couldn’t sit on his ass and pretend that everything was fine.
You were in the path, man, and God saved you.
Wade nailed it when he said that. Travis was alive, when he should have been dead. He’d stood in front of a bomb, and the bomb had passed him by. That had to be a sign. God didn’t save his sorry life so he could do nothing.
Seems like He must have some kind of mission for you.
A chance to do something.
Travis stood alone in the garage and realized the answer was staring him in the face. Right there on the metal shelves was a row of plastic gasoline cans that Wade kept for the machines around the farm. He went over, picked one up, and unscrewed the cap, letting out the sickly aroma of gasoline into the musty garage. Some splashed on his sleeve. He put the fabric to his nose and inhaled. The smell made him dizzy, because it was so strong.
He knew what he was supposed to do. He knew why he was alive.
Just like that, Travis had a plan.
28
When Malik still hadn’t returned by dusk, Khan began to wonder if something had gone wrong. He was hungry, lonely, and scared. The house was dark behind the closed curtains, and he wandered from empty room to empty room amid the shadows. He thought about walking into the street with his hands up and letting the police take him away. Or he thought about finding a phone and calling the media to say: “I didn’t shoot that cop. It wasn’t me.”
Malik was right. No one would believe him.
More than anything, he missed Ahdia and Pak. He wanted to know where they were, and he wanted to be with them. He could picture his wife’s face and hear her voice, and he could feel Pak’s small arms hanging on when he carried him. He hoped Allah would bring them all together again soon. He had no idea of the time and when he should perform salat, but he prayed throughout the day, anyway. It was the only thing that gave him comfort. His relationship to God was the only piece of the world that made sense.
Saturday morning his life had been perfect, and then, with one big bang, it all went away. He didn’t know what would happen next.
His stomach growled, but there was no food in the kitchen. The toilet, which had no water, smelled of waste. Every remnant of human life in the house had been stripped away. No furnishings. No clothes. Just the dust and debris of what had once been a place where a family lived. He didn’t even see where Malik slept, which was strange.
Everything about Malik felt strange.
Why had he taken refuge here, instead of his apartment? What was he doing in this place?
His friend was hiding something, and Khan wanted to know what it was.
He began opening doors, because he was sure the answer was there somewhere. One door, which he’d assumed was a closet, was actually the entrance to the basement. Wooden stairs led down into darkness. He flipped the light switch, but there was no electricity. He returned to the living room to retrieve a small flashlight that Malik had left behind, and with that light guiding him, he took the stairs to the underground level.
The air was cool and damp. He reached the bottom of the steps, where the foundation was made of concrete. His light lit up only a small portion of the space in front of him. The basement was unfinished. Pink insulation filled the seams where the beams of the house were joined to the walls. On the floor, scattered like confetti, he saw mouse droppings. Water and venting pipes made a maze above his head.
He saw a sleeping bag and pillow. This was where Malik spent his nights. He also saw a rickety wooden table and an open bag of vanilla sandwich cookies and a jar of chunky peanut butter. He scooped out peanut butter with his finger, and he wolfed down the rest of the cookies in the bag. His mouth felt sticky and sweet.
Khan shot his light around the walls. He saw barred windows and grew nervous when the light passed over the dirty glass. Anyone outside could see it. Malik had rigged heavy drapery that could block the windows at night, but he hadn’t lowered them yet.
It was time to go back upstairs.
As his flashlight beam swept across the floor, he spotted a worktable and a chair in the middle of the basement. He felt a wave of horror when he realized what he was seeing. The concrete around the table shined with bits of wire. The table itself was a mess of tools, nails, black powder, plastic jugs, and electronic circuits. Beside the table, hanging by shoulder straps on the back of the chair, was a black vinyl vest, in which multiple pockets had been sewn. The pockets were filled with sealed jugs that had been carefully wired together.
Khan wanted to scream.
He knew Malik’s secret now, and it was worse than he’d imagined. It was a suicide vest. It was a human bomb, with only one purpose. To kill the person wearing it and everyone around him.
He swung around sharply, and as he did, his flashlight beam lit up a face, and he jumped. Malik stood directly behind him. His friend’s face was bone white in the light, like a corpse. His eyes were dark and devoid of emotion.
“You shouldn’t be down here, Khan,” Malik told him. “I was outside. I saw the light. Others can, too.”
“Who cares about that?” Khan asked.
He shoved angrily past his friend, their shoulders colliding. Khan made his way by feel, bumping into the wall with his hands until he found the wooden stairs. He took them two at a time, back into the deep shadows of the house, and he heard Malik running behind him.
“Khan!”
Malik caught up with him in the hallway and grabbed his shoulder. Khan spun around and pushed Malik hard. His friend lost his balance. Khan marched for the rear door of the house, and Malik charged after him. They wrestled in the hallway, but Malik was strong and soon pinned Khan’s shoulders to the wall. His friend’s breath was hot on his face, although he could barely see him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Malik demanded.
“Leaving.”
“Are you crazy?”
“I don’t even know who you are anymore,” Khan said.
“I’m a fighter for Islam,” his friend replied.
“Don’t disgrace my religion with that garbage. You are a fighter for nothing. I don’t want to have anything to do with you.”
Malik breathed heavily, and then he let Khan go. “Fine. Get out of here.”
Khan wanted to run out the door, but he didn’t. He stood in silence. He tasted peanut butter on his tongue, making it feel thick. His veins coursed with sugar and adrenaline.
“Did you lie to me?” he asked finally. “The marathon bomb—was it you?”
“No.”
“Do you know who did it?”
“No, I don’t.”
“So who are you planning to kill, Malik? Other than yourself.”
Malik didn’t reply for a long time. Then he said, “You wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re right. I don’t understand at all. It’s against everything I have ever believed. And from you? A man I call a brother? No, I will never understand.”
“I’m part of something larger than myself for the first time ever,” Malik said. “If I lose my life to fight back for Allah, then I’ve done something glorious.”
“Fight back against whom?” Khan asked.
“Dawn Basch.”
Khan pounded the floor. “So you murder this insufferable woman. And you kill yourself at the same time. Maybe others, too. Then what? What does it accomplish? Where does it end? All you do is bring down more violence on our heads. You give her exactly what she wants—proof that every Muslim is no better than a murderer.”
“Maybe that’s what we need to be!” Malik replied. “She’s right about one thing. This is a war, and I’m proud to be a soldier.”
“I won’t listen to this,” Khan told him. “Good-bye, Malik. I’m going to the police right now. I’m sending them here for you. If you want to escape, you’d better do it now. That’s all I can offer you.”
Khan headed for the door, but Malik called after him.
“What about Ahdia?” he said. “What about your son?”
Khan stopped. “What about them?”
Malik walked to Khan in the darkness and clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. “I know where they’re hiding. I came back here so I could take you to them.”
29
Serena found Special Agent Durkin on the pedestrian bridge between the DECC and Canal Park. The FBI agent had a sandwich in her hand, but rather than eating it, she tossed bits of bread into the water, where ducks fought for the prize. It was dark, but streetlights gave the area a yellow glow. The giant ore boat Charles Frederick floated in the channel.
“Agent Maloney said I’d find you here,” Serena said.
“Yeah, I just needed ten minutes to clear my head.” Durkin turned around and leaned against the railing. The lift bridge shimmered in silver a hundred yards away. “You’re Stride’s wife, right?”
“I am.”
Durkin took a quick, obvious glance at her from head to toe. Serena waited for the usual snarky comment about her looks. Even at forty years old, she maintained her showgirl face and body, and most cops assumed that she’d gotten where she was because of her sex appeal. However, Durkin surprised her.
“Sergeant Bei tells me you’re smart. Smarter than Stride. Even smarter than her, too.”
Serena laughed. “Maggie said that? Really?”
“Yeah. She said it made the size of your boobs doubly annoying.”
“Now, that sounds like Maggie,” Serena said.
“I know she’s not one of my fans,” Durkin added.
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“Please. Even my own people have started calling me the Gherkin.”
Serena suppressed a smile. “Well, Maggie can be a little sharp-edged. She and I have had our ups and downs over the years, too. The fact is, you’re a Fed, and you stole our investigation. It really doesn’t matter that you grew up in Duluth. She’s going to resent you.”
“I don’t mind sharp-edged. I’m sharp-edged myself. And I really don’t care whether people like me.”
“Still, this has to be a tough case for you,” Serena said.
“Because of my brother?”
Serena nodded.
“Believe me, the best thing I can do for Ron is catch Khan Rashid. The only thing I regret is not drilling a bullet through Rashid’s head before he shot Officer Kenzie. If I face the same opportunity again, I won’t miss.”
“Well, let’s hope we can bring him in without more violence,” Serena said.
Durkin didn’t rush to agree with her. It made Serena wonder whether, in her heart of hearts, Durkin really wanted to arrest Rashid or whether she’d prefer to face him down again, gun to gun. To make up for her mistake. To make up for Ron.
“So what’s on your mind?” Durkin asked.
“Stride tells me you have a photo of Khan Rashid coming out of the Duluth Outdoor Company shop during the marathon.”
“That’s right.”
“But no actual link to the bomb yet?”
“No, if the bomb was his handiwork, he didn’t do the assembly at his house. We’re checking GPS records in his cab to see where he’s been in the last few weeks. Hopefully, that will lead us to his hiding place.”
“Okay.”
Durkin read the hesitation in her voice. “You and Stride don’t sound convinced that we have our man, but the circumstantial evidence is piling up fast.”
“Yes, it looks that way.”
“But?”
“No buts,” Serena said. “I’m just trying to rule a couple of other things out.”
“I know you’ve been looking into this incident with the homeless guy at the shop,” Durkin said.
“Yes, I’m trying to find the guy and talk to him.”
“It’s pretty thin,” Durkin said.
“Normally, I’d agree with you, but there’s something about it I don’t like.”
The FBI agent threw the rest of her sandwich into the water, which caused a frantic cackling of ducks as they fought for what was left. “All right. Tell me about it.”
“The day after the incident at the shop, somebody spotted the homeless guy, Gary Eagleton—Eagle—drunk out of his mind and wearing a brand-new pair of boots from the Duluth Outdoor Company.”
“What’s your take on that?” Durkin asked.
“Eagle had money to buy booze. Where did he get it? If he’d stolen the boots, the store personnel would have spotted it, and they didn’t. So somebody gave him the boots after the incident. That tells me there’s a third party in the mix that we haven’t identified yet. I’d like to know who it was.”
Durkin thought about it. “I don’t see much of a mystery here. Eagle teams up with somebody to rob the store. He goes up into the loft and fakes a breakdown, and while the staff is distracted, his partner walks out with a bunch of merchandise. Eagle gets his share, fences some of it for drinking money, and keeps the boots for himself.”
“Yes, I thought the same thing,” Serena said. “Except the word on the street is that Eagle avoids Canal Park, doesn’t steal, and keeps to himself. None of that fits with him being part of a burglary scheme.”
“An alkie who needs a fix will do just about anything to get his hands on booze,” Durkin pointed out.
Serena knew that was true. She’d fought her own battle with vodka long ago and lost. In her twenties, in Las Vegas, drinking had almost killed her. Since then, she’d spent seventeen years on the wagon. The closest she’d come to a drink was the day two years ago when she’d found out about Jonny and Maggie’s affair.
“Maybe so, but I’d still like to know exactly what happened,” Serena said. “I’m canvassing local fences to see if anybody moved merchandise from the shop last week. I’d also like to talk to Eagle about who got him to go into that store.”
Durkin shrugged. “Do what you need to do, but it still sounds to me like you’re chasing zebras.”
Serena smiled. A “zebra” was a wild or overly complicated explanation for a simple crime. Some cops, when they heard hoofbeats, looked for zebras instead
of horses. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” she admitted.
“Since you’re looking into the shop, I have another question for you,” Durkin went on. “How well do you know Drew and Krista Olson?”
“Pretty well. They adopted Cat’s baby.” She could hear an undercurrent of suspicion in Durkin’s voice. “Why? What is this about?”
“I did some research on the businesses affected by the blast,” Durkin replied. “The Olsons are having a difficult stretch. The shop fell behind on a lot of its bills this spring.”
“It’s retail,” Serena said, “and we didn’t have much of a spring. The weather kept a lot of tourists away.”
“Yes, but I found something strange. The Olsons purchased a terrorism rider on their commercial insurance policy last year. If this incident is certified as a terrorist attack, they’re fully covered.”
Serena shrugged. “So they were smart.”
“Maybe, but you have to wonder why a struggling business in a small city like Duluth would pay extra for that kind of protection,” Durkin went on. “It’s almost like they knew something was going to happen.”
* * *
“When did you hear the shot?” Stride asked.
He examined the broken window and turned around to find the matching hole in the bedroom ceiling where the bullet was lodged. The sharp angle suggested that the shooter had been across the street from the Muslim Student Center house.
Haq Al-Masri checked his watch. “An hour ago. Just after dark. We heard glass breaking and then the noise of a car speeding away. By the time I got outside, the car was gone. I think it headed west, but that’s all I can tell you.”
“No one was hurt?” Stride asked.
“Fortunately, we were all downstairs when it happened. If someone had been in this bedroom, they could have been killed.”
“I’m sorry. I’m glad your students are all okay.”
“They’re not okay, Jonathan. They’re scared and angry. Dawn Basch tweeted a photo of this house, and we immediately became a target for her followers.”
Marathon Page 18