Marathon

by Brian Freeman

  “I’ll try to position a squad car on the street outside the house for a few hours,” Stride said. “That should dissuade anyone else who gets ideas about targeting the place. The challenge is, we’re spread thin because of the manhunt.”

  “Yes, there are always resources to hunt Muslims,” Haq replied acidly, “but when vigilantes shoot at us, the police are nowhere to be found.”

  Stride’s eyes were dark in the bedroom. “I lost a man last night. Try to remember that.”

  “I do. And I’m sorry.”

  “Let’s go downstairs,” Stride suggested.

  He took the narrow staircase to the main floor of the student house, with Haq close behind him. A cluster of young men sat in a circle on the living room floor, far from the windows. The room was lit only by candles, which left their faces in shadow. He could see suspicion and mistrust when they looked at him, as if he was an enemy. He went through the screen door onto the porch and then onto the grass near College Street. Haq followed.

  “Can you arrest Basch?” Haq asked.

  “She hasn’t committed a crime,” Stride replied.

  “No crime? She’s out there encouraging vigilantes to act against Muslims. She knows exactly what she’s doing. And the result is a bullet through our window.”

  “Haq, I wish there was more I could do, but she hasn’t even come close to crossing a legal line. It’s hard enough getting a stalker who sends actual threats of violence behind bars. Basch calling Muslims radicals in her tweets is protected speech. I can’t stop her.”

  “And you wonder why we get frustrated,” Haq said. “Where are our Constitutional protections?”

  “We’ll do everything we can, but you should tell your community to be cautious. The city is hot. Everyone’s on edge. People lost friends and family, and they’re angry.”

  “We want justice as much as you do, but shooting at our windows isn’t justice. Hounding Khan Rashid isn’t justice. This is a lynching of an innocent man and of an entire people.”

  “Do you still think Khan is innocent?” Stride asked. “He shot a police officer.”

  “I’m sorry, no, I don’t believe that. There’s some other explanation. Khan doesn’t even own a gun.”

  “Witnesses saw him with one,” Stride said.

  “Then the witnesses are wrong.”

  Stride sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Where is he, Haq? Where’s Khan hiding?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the truth.”

  “Would you tell me if you knew?” Stride asked.

  “Honestly? I’m not sure. It’s not you that I don’t trust, Jonathan. It’s all the others. I’m afraid of what they’ll do to him.”

  “Then help me arrange a peaceful surrender,” Stride said.

  Haq hesitated. “I’m trying do that.”

  “So you do know where he is.”

  “No, but I’ve reached out to a lawyer, and we’re trying to work out a plan and find a way to get a message to Khan. There has to be a way to do this without bloodshed and to make sure his rights are protected.”

  “That’s what I want, too,” Stride said.

  “Forgive me for saying that that doesn’t count for much right now,” Haq replied.

  “What about Ahdia Rashid? And her son? Where are they?”

  “Safe,” Haq said.

  “If you know their location, you should tell me. Wherever they are, they’ll be safer in protective custody.”

  “Right now, I think it’s better to keep them hidden. They know nothing about any of this, Jonathan. All they want is to get their lives back. Ahdia is no radical, and neither is Khan. They are decent, hardworking, religious Americans.”

  “What about Malik Noon?” Stride asked.

  “Khan is not Malik.”

  “Do you know where Malik is?”

  “No.”

  “Would Khan turn to him for help?”

  “Maybe. If he’s desperate, he might turn to a friend.”

  “Don’t you see how this looks, Haq?” Stride asked. “Malik is a radical, but Khan isn’t, except now they may be together. I can’t take claims of innocence at face value, not with a dead cop in that cemetery. The FBI already thinks I’m naïve to give Khan the slightest benefit of the doubt.”

  Haq grabbed Stride’s arm. “I know you’re making a leap of faith to trust me. I promise you, if I find Malik, I will tell you. And I’m doing everything in my power to arrange for Khan to turn himself in peacefully. When he does, and you talk to him, you’ll see that I’m right. I don’t know what happened in that cemetery, but it’s not what you think.”

  “I have to go,” Stride said. “I’ll get an officer to park in front of the house. Until then, stay away from the windows.”

  “It’s not just this place,” Haq replied. “Basch has been going all over the city with her ‘radicalduluth’ hashtag. She posted a picture in front of our mosque. She posted at a Muslim-owned bakery. She posted in front of a house owned by an Indian doctor. Is there really nothing you can do to stop this?”

  “I wish there was,” Stride said, “but she’s within her rights.”

  Haq exhaled in disgust. “People in our community are on guard, but we can’t be everywhere all night, Jonathan. And yes, I know, you’re spread thin.”

  “Get me a list of the places she’s tagged,” Stride told him. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Haq slid his phone from his back pocket. Immediately, he went to Twitter and ran a hashtag search and scrolled through a series of posts from Basch and her followers. “Look, she’s already posted three more photos in the past hour. And do you see what people are saying in their comments? These are threats. What more does it take to show incitement?”

  “Get me the list,” Stride said again. “I’ll make sure we do drive-bys at all the locations throughout the night.”

  Haq didn’t answer. He stared at the screen on his phone. His face bloomed with fear.

  “What is it?” Stride asked him.

  “She just posted another photo,” Haq murmured.

  “Where?”

  “A gallery in Woodland. The owner is a Muslim artist. She’s a friend of mine. Jonathan, we have to get over there right now.”

  “Why?” Stride asked.

  Then he read Haq’s face, and he knew the answer already. “That’s where you’re hiding Ahdia and her son.”

  30

  Ahdia huddled with Pak in a corner of the gallery attic, near the two small windows that looked out on Woodland Avenue. Stifling air gathered in the tiny loft, making them both sweat. The artist, Goleen, did much of her work up here, so the room had a faint chemical smell of paint and turpentine. Her huge, twisted bronzes of Arabic letters, mounted on pedestals, were lined up like a parade against one wall. In the gloomy darkness, the sculptures looked like monsters, and Pak was afraid of them.

  When cars passed outside, their headlights lit up a spiderweb on the dusty old windows, which were painted shut and divided into chambers like prison bars. Ahdia could see a large black spider gliding along the web’s sticky surface, laying a trap for the moths and gnats that sought out the light. It made her shiver. Pak was afraid of monsters, but Ahdia was afraid of spiders.

  “Where is Papa?” Pak asked in a loud voice.

  Ahdia’s eyes shot to the staircase that led to the main floor of the gallery, which was housed in a brick building no larger than an old one-room schoolhouse. She was sure they were alone. Goleen had gone home hours ago. Even so, Haq had said to take no chances of being found out.

  She put a finger gently on her son’s lips and smiled at him. “Softly now. We must be very quiet.”

  “I miss Papa,” Pak whispered.

  “I know. So do I. He will be with us very soon.”

  “Will you sing me a song?” the boy asked.

  “Oh, Pak, I don’t know—”

  “Please,” he urged her. “The song about the crow, okay?”

  Ahdia could never say no to him. She rustled
his hair and put her lips near his ear and breathed the song to him, barely aloud, in Urdu. It was a fable about a clever, thirsty crow who found water in the base of an urn and added stones until the water rose high enough for him to dip in his beak. She could remember her mother singing the same song to her in a warm, noisy bedroom in Karachi; it was one of her earliest memories.

  When she was done, Pak made her sing it again. The music relaxed both of them.

  Holding her son always made her feel blessed. He was her everything. She knew physical love for Khan, but the love of a husband and wife made her feel selfish, because it was about her own happiness. Her love for Pak was something that tiptoed into the deepest parts of her soul, and it was not about happiness; it was about fierce, selfless devotion.

  “Mama, I’m thirsty,” Pak murmured.

  “Like the crow?” she replied, smiling.

  “Yes.”

  “Shall I look for pebbles to make the water rise?”

  Pak giggled.

  “Okay, stay here, and I’ll see if there is any water downstairs,” she told him quietly.

  “What about the monsters?” he asked, pointing at the sculptures.

  “Don’t worry about them. The crow will keep you safe.”

  Ahdia crossed the attic floor, which was messy with old drop cloths that bore the remnants of Goleen’s work. She found the wooden stairs in the pitch-blackness, and she took them one at a time, blindly, wincing at the loud creak of every loose floorboard. She reached the gallery, where the air was cooler. Tall, rectangular windows broke up the walls on three sides, letting in light from the street. She saw more sculptures, like those in the attic. Wall hangings as intricate as a kaleidoscope. Hand-painted pottery. Jewelry made from colored beach stones. She wished she had a talent like Goleen, to create something beautiful out of nothing, but her own mind worked like a mathematician’s, full of numbers and computer formulas.

  At the back of the gallery was a small office, with a desk, a bathroom, and a half-size refrigerator. Goleen had told her she was welcome to anything in it. Ahdia found two small bottles of water. She drank one herself, realizing she was thirsty from the dry, dusty space and the salty sandwiches Haq had smuggled to them earlier in the day. She clutched the other bottle in her hand as she returned to the gallery.

  Through the tall windows, Ahdia saw the twin eyes of headlights, and she felt exposed. A large vehicle pulled into the dirt driveway beside the building, and she heard the crunch of its tires on loose rock. She threw herself to the floor and held her breath. The gallery itself was elevated six feet above street level, so she was higher than the truck that had passed below her. Its lights disappeared into a parking lot in back that was sheltered by trees and led to a small side street near the fringe of Hartley Park. She no longer heard its engine.

  Maybe it was gone.

  Ahdia flew across the gallery. She took quick steps back up to the attic, not caring about the shrieking of the wood under her feet. With almost no light to guide her, she collided with one of Goleen’s heavy sculptures and caught it just as it fell to the floor. She rested it at her feet, and then she made her way to the far corner where Pak was waiting for her. She sat down and gathered him up in her arms.

  “Mama, I’m still thirsty,” he said loudly.

  “Shhh. Okay.”

  She unscrewed the cap on the bottle and handed it to him. As he drank, the plastic crinkled as the air was sucked away. She tensed, wanting him to finish quickly. When he was done and wiped his mouth, he exhaled with a sigh of satisfaction that seemed to shake the building.

  Ahdia took the bottle away. “Be very, very quiet now.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she shook her head, and he could see in her stern eyes that she was serious. Pak buried his face in her chest. They held on to each other, dead still. The only movement in the room was the black spider, scuttling about the strands of its web, its legs flicking like knitting needles. She had a feeling that the spider was a sign of bad things to come.

  Below her, muffled, she heard the shattering of glass.

  Moments later, the wooden floor of the gallery groaned. Someone was downstairs.

  * * *

  Travis had parked the van where it couldn’t be seen from the street.

  He checked the photo on Twitter, because he didn’t want to make a mistake. When he compared the brick building in front of him to the picture that Dawn Basch had posted, he could see that he was in the right place.

  His original plan had been to burn Khan Rashid’s house to the ground. He’d filled up half a dozen gasoline tanks from Wade’s garage by stopping at four different gas stations around the city. He’d headed for the dead-end street where Rashid lived, but when he got there, he found the house watched by two police cruisers. Rather than let himself and his truck be seen, he’d backed away into the side street, made a U-turn, and headed to Woodland Avenue.

  He needed a different target. A new focus for his rage and revenge, something that would send a message. He’d found it online. Dawn Basch had tweeted a series of photos with the hashtag ‘radicalduluth,’ and one of the photos showed a Muslim-owned gallery barely two miles away.

  Good.

  He’d start there.

  Travis made sure he was alone as he got out of the van. The night air was damp. He heard frogs in the woods like a deafening chorus. The back door of the brick gallery was immediately in front of him. He had to decide. Stay or go. Fight or run. It had sounded so easy when he was standing in Wade’s garage, but now he was actually here.

  You cross a line, and you can’t go back.

  Travis climbed steps to the back door of the gallery. He tried the knob; it was locked. He peered through the window, but it was dark inside, and he couldn’t see anything. He checked his surroundings again and then peeled off his shirt and wrapped it around his fist and forearm. With one swift punch, he broke through the glass beside the door.

  He reached through the window frame, undid the dead bolt, and let himself inside.

  The floor shifted under his heavy feet as he followed the corridor. He listened, but no one moved. No one shouted. No one came running. The gallery was empty. He studied the odd artwork, which looked foreign, as if this were some desert kingdom, not Duluth, not America. Looking at it reminded him of why he was there. His fists clenched. He’d been angry in his life, but he’d never felt soul-sucking hatred before, thinking about what these people had done to Joni and Shelly.

  Travis returned to the van and popped the back doors. He reached in and grabbed three of the red gasoline tanks and carried them into the gallery. He put one tank down and brought the other two to the front door that faced Woodland Avenue. There was no traffic outside; the night was quiet. He unscrewed the caps and walked back and forth between the walls, pouring down trails of gasoline. He coated everything. The floor. The art. The window ledges. Gasoline splashed onto his skin and clothes. Soon the shut-in space had a choking smell of gas that rose into his head and made him dizzy. His eyes teared.

  When he emptied those two tanks, he retrieved the other and continued his work. He moved fast, and he moved silently, with no sound except his labored breathing.

  Then he stopped.

  Above him, he heard a sharp crack in the ceiling, as if someone had taken a step. He looked up, and he waited. The sound didn’t recur. He went to the wooden staircase and peered up into the dark shadows. He saw no one, and when he listened again, he heard nothing but the distant song of the frogs outside.

  His mind was playing tricks on him. He was alone.

  Travis saw a car pass on Woodland Avenue, and it reminded him how exposed he was. He poured gasoline on the steps, and it dripped onto his shoes. By now, the third tank was nearly empty, too. He backed toward the rear door, making a ribbon of gasoline that stretched along the hallway, down the outside steps, and through the dirt, grass, and leaves. Near the van, he stopped. He screwed the cap onto the tank, put it in the back, and shut the door. He was having tro
uble catching his breath, partly because of the fumes, partly because of his fear.

  He could still drive away. He didn’t have to light the match.

  But he owed it to Joni, to Shelly, to Wade, and to God to do what he’d come here for.

  Travis went back to the van and started the engine. Once the fire started, all he had to do was speed forward onto the side street and disappear. From his pocket, he slid out a silver Zippo lighter. It had been a birthday gift from Joni. His skin smelled of gasoline, and his shoes were soaked in it, and he didn’t want to set himself on fire. He opened the driver’s door, with the engine still running, and climbed out. The wind was at his back, blowing toward the gallery. That was good. He reached inside and grabbed an empty Budweiser can that had been clanging around the van for weeks. He rolled up a take-out menu from a local Chinese restaurant and shoved it into the hole of the can, leaving six inches of paper sticking out at the top.

  Travis popped the top of the lighter. All he needed to do was spin the wheel. He wondered what kind of fire he would get and how fast the flames would spread.

  You cross a line.

  You can’t go back.

  The lighter spat up a tiny flame. With his arm extended, he held the flame to the take-out menu and let it curl into fire and ash. Like a softball pitcher, he made an underhanded toss, hurling the burning can toward the ribbon of gasoline.

  It fell short. And then it rolled.

  Fire touched gas, and the trail burst into a wall of flame that roared like a racecar across the parking lot, up the stairs, and into the gallery.

  Travis waited.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock.

  The building exploded.

  31

  Khan and Malik waited until dark before they slipped out of the house. Malik went first. He crouched and dashed across the lawn into the empty street. With his body barely lit by the gleam of stars, he beckoned for Khan to follow. Side by side, they pushed through dandelion weeds and a fringe of dense trees onto the rolling fairway of the Ridgeview Country Club. The grass was lush like a fur rug under their feet. Individual pines dotted the slope. A breath of wind whispered in the branches.