Marathon

by Brian Freeman

“A tiny finder’s fee. The big money goes to the girls.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “It’s a party! That’s all!”

  “That’s all? They’re not expecting any action?”

  “Fun, friendly, cute, nothing else. I swear on my five sisters. Somebody gets fresh, you can slap ’em.”

  Cat chewed a fingernail and debated with herself. She’d been down this road with Curt before. She’d been at one of his parties on the Charles Frederick and knew what the men expected. It was more than fun and friendly. Even so, two hundred bucks was a lot of money. And she had an itch.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, Cat, it’s summer in the city!”

  “I’ll think about it. Where’s Eagle?”

  “You’ll think about it? Kitty Cat, we’re talking hot tubs and a DJ and probably lobster and shit. I’ll pick you up at ten o’clock, okay? Sneak out your window, meet me at Lafayette Park.”

  Cat hated herself for being weak, but she hadn’t snuck a drink in weeks. And she liked lobster. And it was cool having men hang on her, which they always did. And Curt was right; it was summertime.

  “I want the cash in advance,” she said.

  “It’s in your purse before we walk in the door.”

  “You make it clear, I’m dressing up the party, and that’s all. I’m not screwing anybody, Curt, you hear me? I don’t do that anymore. Any guy sticks a hand up my dress, and my knee is in his balls.”

  “Understood. You’re the best.”

  “Where’s Eagle?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Aw, Curt, you’re messing with me,” Cat snapped.

  “I don’t know where he is, but I know where he was. As of last Friday. Guy saw him hiking along the railroad tracks near Becks Road.”

  “Last Friday?” Cat complained. “That was four days ago. He could be anywhere by now. That doesn’t tell me anything.”

  “It’s more than you had before,” Curt pointed out.

  “Forget the party.”

  “Oh, don’t be like that. You’ve got the whole day to check out the tracks, and then you can have fun and make some money tonight.”

  Cat sighed. “Where exactly did this guy see Eagle?”

  “Maybe half a mile from I-35. He was heading north.”

  She thought about the location. One advantage of her time on the street was that she knew areas around Duluth that most people didn’t. The parks. The railroad tracks. The abandoned buildings. If she knew them, Eagle knew them, too. And one of the creepiest places in the area was within spitting distance of Becks Road and I-35.

  “That’s near the old Nopeming Sanatorium,” Cat said. “Didn’t you say that Eagle likes to hang out there sometimes?”

  “I did.”

  “So maybe he was heading there.”

  “Maybe so, Kitty Cat. Be careful if you sneak into the ruins, though. They say the place is haunted from all the TB patients who died there. Don’t let the ghosts get you.”

  * * *

  “So Cat was here?” Serena asked Drew Olson.

  “Yes. She was watching us from the school. I tried to get her to come over, but as soon as she realized I’d seen her, she took off.”

  Serena studied the empty basketball court on the other side of the alley. “It’s not the first time. She told me she was here on Sunday, too. She keeps coming back, so maybe that’s a good thing.”

  “Well, I hope I didn’t scare her off,” Drew said.

  “Not likely. Cat’s tough. It’s not about being afraid with her.”

  Drew bounced Michael in his arms. Serena found it hard to take her eyes off the baby whenever she was near him. This time, though, she didn’t make any effort to hold him.

  “So what’s up?” Drew asked. “Is there more news? That was a terrible thing last night about the fire in Woodland. Even if that man Rashid is guilty, it’s horrific to lose a mother and child like that. Krista was in tears over it.”

  “Yes, it’s awful.” Serena hesitated. “Listen, Drew, I need to ask you something.”

  “Sure.”

  “Why did you and Krista take out a terrorism rider on your commercial policy last year?”

  Drew’s eyes widened. His face clouded over. He put Michael into a stroller on the back lawn, and then he folded his arms tightly together. “Do you honestly think—”

  “I don’t think anything, Drew. I have to ask. It raised a red flag with the FBI. Your business was having trouble, but even so, you bought extra insurance to cover an event that most people would consider pretty unlikely around here.”

  “And yet look where we are,” Drew said.

  “Yes. That’s what makes the FBI curious.”

  Drew’s face had an angry cast, but then the anger faded. He sighed. “Look, I know you’re just doing your job. I guess I’m not surprised that someone would ask the question. The fact is, the rider wasn’t particularly expensive for us. Apparently, the insurers didn’t think a terrorism event here was very likely, either.”

  “Then why do it?” she asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious? We did it because of Boston. Our shop is at the finish line of a major marathon, Serena. After Boston, we realized that if something terrible did come to Duluth, it might well happen at our front door. I’m not going to apologize for taking precautions. Everybody did. There are a lot more police at the marathon now for the very same reason.”

  “You’re right,” Serena said.

  Drew put a hand on her shoulder. “Please tell the FBI that Krista and I had absolutely nothing to do with what happened.”

  “I will.”

  He retrieved Michael from the stroller, as if the boy could soothe him. He didn’t say anything else. Serena understood. Trust was a casualty of every crime, but Duluth was still a small town, which made it worse. It was hard to think that a friend believed you were capable of something evil.

  “I have to go, Drew,” she said. “Take care of yourself.”

  She wondered if she’d crossed a line with him and whether she would ever be invited back. Drew must have realized what she was thinking. “You’re always welcome here, Serena. And Cat, too, of course.”

  “Thanks.”

  As she walked away, Drew called, “Did you find that man you were looking for? The homeless man who was in our shop?”

  Serena turned and shook her head. “No, we’re still looking.”

  “And do you think he’s important?” Drew asked. “Do you think he knows something about the bombing?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “I do.”

  34

  Maggie took intermittent bites of a Quarter Pounder as she scrolled through Twitter on the MacBook balanced on her lap. Beside her, Max Guppo feasted on a Coney Island chili cheese dog. She had a rule about not staying in enclosed spaces with Guppo, and she opened all the windows in her Avalanche as a precaution. The barrel-shaped sergeant had a way of poisoning anyplace he inhabited for more than ten minutes with near-lethal quantities of gas.

  “Who the hell are these people?” she complained with her mouth full. “I’ve never seen so many whack-jobs making threats. It would take us a year to run these all down.”

  “Yeah, Twitter is like walking into a crowded stadium where everyone is screaming obscenities at each other,” Guppo replied. “They’re big talkers, but the ones to really worry about are the people who don’t say anything.”

  “So you’re saying we’re chasing our tails here?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Maggie scowled. She knew he was right. Whoever firebombed the gallery on Woodland Avenue had obviously seen the Twitter post from Dawn Basch, but that was a universe of thousands of people, and most of them were hidden behind anonymous accounts. She’d hoped for a clue among the users who’d reacted to the post, but instead, the sheer volume of haters overwhelmed her. It wasn’t going to help them find a suspect.

  “Uh-oh,” Guppo said, lifting up in the passenger seat. “Sorry. Incoming.”r />
  “You mean outgoing,” Maggie said, opening her door quickly. She jumped down and exited the truck before the memory of the chili cheese dog could waft her way.

  She stood in the street and studied the burnt shell of the gallery. A light drizzle fell, tamping down the ash into wet tar. Police and firefighters combed through the wreckage. She had officers going up and down the surrounding streets to interview neighbors. So far, no one had seen anything that would point them toward a suspect.

  “What do you think about timing?” Guppo asked, joining her on the street as he fanned his backside with a clipboard. “I figure this guy probably didn’t spend more than ninety seconds on site.”

  “Yeah, it didn’t take him long,” Maggie agreed.

  Ninety seconds sounded right. One and a half minutes. That was how long it had taken to incinerate a mother and son. She understood how Stride felt. There were moments as a cop that made you want to throw it all away.

  Maggie thought about the facts they’d already gathered. The fire investigation team had traced the ignition point to the rear of the building. There were ruts in the dirt but not enough to give them tire tracks. The bomber had broken inside, dumped gasoline, set it ablaze, and sped off. If there was forensic evidence in the building, the fire had destroyed most of it.

  “What about security cameras up and down Woodland?” she asked.

  Guppo shook his head. “Nothing. No help there.”

  “Sometimes I think it would be easier to work in a city where Big Brother is always watching.”

  “No, thanks,” Guppo said. “I’m staying here.”

  Maggie crossed to the gallery, where the smell of smoke remained strong. She’d talked to the owner, a woman named Goleen, who’d been numbed by the death and destruction. Goleen had shown her pictures of her art, none of which had survived the fire. Maggie recognized the woman’s talent, but the geometric designs and Arabic sculptures reminded her that many Muslims lived in a world apart, with a culture she simply didn’t understand. Some walls were hard to climb.

  “Mind if I ask you something, Max? Just between you and me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you think Dawn Basch is right? Is there some kind of problem with Islam that causes violence?”

  Guppo scratched his comb-over. “Wow. I don’t know. When it happens over and over, you can’t help but think that, right? How could anyone do some of those crazy things without a hole in their heart? The thing is, we live next door to a Somali family who are the sweetest people you’re ever going to meet. There’s nothing wrong with their religion. I think about them whenever I get angry about terrorism.”

  “Sometimes I feel like the Muslim world has a few centuries of catching up to do when it comes to civilization,” Maggie said.

  “Yeah, well, so does the guy who did this. Look, I blame the leaders, not the followers. You’ve got wannabe Hitlers overseas who spread poison and a cult of deluded young people who swallow it.”

  “I suppose you’re right. I know being prejudiced about it just makes it worse. Be honest—do some of the cops around here still have a problem with me being Chinese?”

  “If they do, they’re smart enough not to say it to me,” Guppo replied.

  Maggie smiled. No matter how much of the dark side Guppo saw of the world, he retained a sunny outlook on life. He had a wife. He had his daughters. He had a house and a pontoon boat. As far as Guppo was concerned, he couldn’t be more blessed. Maggie wished she could segment her life into good and bad the way he did, but, like Stride, she sometimes carried the dark side home with her.

  “So we have no witnesses, no cameras, and no evidence,” she said.

  “Right.”

  “And the suspect pool is everyone on Twitter.”

  “Right.”

  Maggie clucked her tongue in frustration. There had to be a way to narrow it down. Somewhere, somehow, this guy had left them a clue. Standing on the sidewalk, she caught a whiff of gasoline rising from the ashes, and that gave her an idea. “Hey, how much gas did the fire guys think the perp used?”

  “Hard to be exact, but several gallons,” Guppo said. “Maybe ten or more.”

  “Most people don’t have that much gas hanging around their garage,” she said.

  “Probably not. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking the gallery bombing feels spontaneous, right? Nobody decided to do this days or weeks ago. They came up with the plan after the marathon and probably after Khan Rashid hit the news and Basch tweeted her Muslim-owned hit list.”

  “Agreed,” Guppo said.

  “Okay, so odds are this guy bought a lot of gasoline recently.”

  Guppo saw immediately what she had in mind. “If he was at a gas station, he was on camera. I’ll get some uniforms to start gathering up video feeds from every station within five miles of here. We can start working our way backward in the hours before the fire.”

  “Exactly,” Maggie said. “If we’re lucky, we’ll spot somebody filling up a bunch of gas cans.”

  * * *

  Cat stared through the woods at the ruined Nopeming Sanatorium. The day was quiet around her except for a chorus of birdsong. Rain spat in her face from gray clouds.

  She’d been here many times. Never legally. One of Curt’s crazy parties had been held here in the dead of a winter night, until the police broke it up. Street people and urban explorers found abandoned buildings irresistible, and Nopeming was notorious. A reality television show about ghost investigators had featured the site on one of their episodes, and ever since, the owners had struggled to keep out trespassers who wanted to sneak inside to prove their courage.

  A homeless Ojibwe man had told Cat that Nopeming meant “out in the woods.” The facility dated back to the early part of the last century, when it had served as a place for tuberculosis patients to live and die. Years later, it became a nursing home, and then it fell into disrepair, too expensive to tear down, too expensive to rebuild. The owners had dreams of turning it into a charter school, but for now, it was the haunted house of the Northland, hidden behind a fenced road and locked gate.

  Cat didn’t want to get caught. She’d parked on the frontage road and hiked up the long driveway and then ducked into the woods when the building came into view. She saw no sign of the caretaker today. If a truck was parked outside, you knew to stay away. From the outside, the four-story yellow brick building looked like a sprawling old hotel, and it was only when you looked closely that you could see the broken windows and torn curtains flapping in the breeze.

  Cat ran across the wet lawn. She knew how to get in. Several of the upper-floor windows were open to equalize the indoor and outdoor temperatures and prevent mold. She found a birch tree leaning toward the building and scrambled up the trunk into the thick of the branches. One branch, just sturdy enough to support her weight, faced an open window, and she scooted along it until the branch bent down and ushered her onto the sill. She slipped nimbly inside one of the old sanatorium bedrooms.

  Plaster dust littered the floor, and electrical wires hung from missing ceiling tiles. Remnants of a tattered sheer, flimsy curtain danced in the wind, sagging on a broken rod. Rainwater puddled under her feet. It was a small, warm room, and it creeped her out to think of the many people who had occupied the beds here, dying slowly and horribly.

  She made her way to a corridor that stretched the length of the building. Up and down the walls, paint peeled, looking like the white wings of hundreds of gulls. The hallway was a mix of sun and shadow, filled with a minefield of debris. The wooden banisters were covered in dust. It felt humid.

  Cat listened but heard no signs of life.

  She peered into each empty room as she walked, passing through open fire doors from one end of the building to the other. No one was inside. When she found a stairwell, she climbed to the next floor, crunching dried paint shards with each step.

  Upstairs, she called softly, “Eagle?”

  And then again: “Eagle?
It’s Cat.”

  No one answered, but she squelched a scream as something moved in the ceiling immediately above her. She looked up into a hole where several ceiling tiles were missing, and the bandit face of a raccoon stared back at her. It was huge, hunched up on its back legs, and not scared of her at all. Cat backed away from the animal, turned, and ran. The floor was wet, and she slipped and fell, and a cloud of dust blew into her eyes. Her jeans tore, and something sharp scraped her knee. Getting up, limping, she blinked and wiped her face with one arm. When she could see again, she found herself staring into one of the bedrooms.

  There was Eagle.

  He lay on top of a purple sleeping bag, facing away from her, with his head on a pillow. His body was stretched out; his feet wore no shoes, just socks that were worn through at the heels. Two empty plastic vodka bottles were tipped on the floor near him, along with an empty bag of Jack Link’s beef jerky and an open can of tortilla soup.

  “Eagle,” Cat called. “Hey, it’s Cat. I need to talk to you.”

  She took a step closer. That was when she noticed the smell. She also noticed that the wall near Eagle’s face dripped with a burst of something that looked like pus and snot.

  “Eagle?”

  She squatted next to him and tugged on his shoulder. His body drooped onto his back.

  Cat couldn’t stop the scream this time.

  Eagle had no face. Someone had shot it away.

  35

  “Settle down, buddy,” Wade Ralston told Travis. “You need to be cool.”

  The two men stood on the sprawling lawn outside Wade’s farmhouse on Five Corners Road. It was raining hard, but Wade wasn’t about to let Travis track evidence into his house. The kid reeked of gasoline that had soaked into his clothes, and his skin was almost black.

  The hospital had discharged Wade an hour earlier, and he’d ordered an Uber ride to get home when he couldn’t reach Travis. When he’d spotted the Bug Zappers van parked askew outside his garage, he’d told the driver to drop him off on the deserted farm road rather than approach the house. He’d waited until the Uber car was gone and then hiked past the huge evergreens and found Travis asleep in the front seat of the van. When Wade yanked open the door and smelled the interior, he knew exactly what the kid had done. And the idiot had done it in the company van! Sometimes Travis was nothing but a swearing, drinking, cheating waste of a sperm cell.