Marathon

by Brian Freeman

  42

  Gayle Durkin tried to read Special Agent Maloney’s face as he sat down behind the desk. That was what she did; she read faces. She knew when people were hiding things. She knew when they were lying. Her insights typically gave her an advantage when she was face-to-face with someone. Most people couldn’t keep secrets from her, but Maloney was one of the few who could. The things that were so expressive in others—eyes, mouth, the tilt of one’s head, the positioning of hands—gave her no clues with him.

  He’d asked for a private meeting. Just the two of them. Drop whatever she was doing, and come back to the DECC. She had no idea what to expect, and that made her nervous.

  “Thank you for joining me, Agent Durkin,” Maloney told her in the same emotionless voice he always used. The desk in front of him was empty except for a slim file folder.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Can you review for me the events on Sunday night that led up to the death of Officer Kenzie?” Maloney asked.

  Gayle was confused. “Yes, sir. I did write up a full report about that yesterday.”

  “I know. I’ve read it.” Maloney folded his hands together and waited. He didn’t say anything more.

  She found herself stuttering, which was unlike her. “Okay. Well, I passed Rashid’s vehicle as I was responding to the reports from the Woodland Market. I reversed course and gave chase. I followed him to a road bordering the Park Hill Cemetery, where I found his taxi crashed. At that point, I pursued him on foot through the cemetery. I reached the road that divides Park Hill and Forest Hill, and at that point, I spotted Rashid on the other side of the fence. Backup was arriving from both directions, and I heard the voice of Officer Kenzie shouting at Rashid to stop.”

  “Where was Officer Kenzie in relation to you?” Maloney asked.

  “Based on the direction of his voice, I believe he was about thirty yards directly in front of me. That was also where his body was found.”

  “And Rashid?”

  “Rashid was at a forty-five-degree angle to me, about twenty-five yards inside the fence.”

  “What happened next?” Maloney asked.

  Gayle looked for any clues at all in Maloney’s face and voice as to what this interrogation was about. She found none. Even so, with each question, her anxiety soared.

  “Well, there was a flash of lightning, and I saw a gun in Rashid’s hand, so I shouted a warning.”

  “Are you sure about the gun?”

  “Am I—well, it was dark and raining, and it happened fast, but, yes, I’m sure. And Officer Kenzie is dead, so obviously—”

  Maloney interrupted her. “How many shots did you fire?”

  “Two.”

  “Did any of the backup units fire?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What about Officer Kenzie? How many shots did he fire?”

  “I’m not sure. There were at least two shots from the other side of the fence before I fired, but I don’t know which shots came from Officer Kenzie and which came from Rashid.”

  “Thank you, Agent Durkin.” Maloney opened the file folder in front of him. “I’m afraid I have upsetting news for you.”

  Gayle could almost hear the roar of the blood pumping in her head. “What’s that, sir?”

  “This is the ballistics report from Quantico,” Maloney told her, gesturing at the file. “They were able to match the bullet taken from Officer Kenzie’s body to the gun that fired it.”

  “How is that possible? We didn’t recover Rashid’s gun at the scene.”

  “I’m sorry, Agent Durkin. The bullet that killed Officer Kenzie didn’t come from Rashid’s gun. It came from your gun.”

  Gayle blinked. “What? That’s not possible.”

  “I’m afraid there’s no question about it. At my request, they ran the test again to be one hundred percent certain.”

  She bolted from her chair but had to grab the desk to keep from falling. She felt as if a tornado were swirling in front of her face, threatening to suck her in. “Sir, I fired at Rashid. He was at an angle to me. Officer Kenzie was nowhere near my line of fire. I couldn’t possibly have hit him.”

  “I understand. Based on stone residue found on the bullet, the ballistics team believe the bullet likely ricocheted off a headstone in the cemetery and struck Officer Kenzie.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “It was a freak accident,” Maloney told her. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  Gayle tried to find words, but she didn’t have any. She could feel the rain on her skin again. She remembered the heaviness of the gun in her hand. The lightning blinded her. She heard her own voice, shouting. She felt the recoil as she fired.

  Her gun.

  She’d killed a police officer.

  “What—what happens next, sir?” she asked.

  “There will be a full investigation, which should be completed within two weeks. Given your report and the ballistics findings, I don’t believe any blame will attach to you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Gayle replied, trying to keep her voice steady.

  “Typically, we encourage agents involved in shootings to take five days of administrative leave. If you wish to do so, you should, and we’ll make mental health support services available to you.”

  “Am I required to take leave, sir?” she asked. “Because with the bomber still out there, I’d rather stay.”

  “No, it’s optional at the agency, and if you’d prefer to continue working, I’d prefer that for now, too, because I need you on this investigation. But if there’s any hint of this situation affecting your performance, I’ll pull you from active duty immediately. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’ll be all, Durkin.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Gayle turned around and left the office. She put one foot in front of the other, not wanting Maloney to see any hesitation in her walk. She squared her shoulders, keeping her expression blank for any of the other agents who might be looking her way. Outside, she made her way to the restroom at the far end of the hallway, and she made sure she was alone before she locked herself in a stall.

  Then she sank to her knees and threw up.

  She closed her eyes and made sure she was done, and she stood up unsteadily and left the stall. At the sink, she rinsed her mouth and washed her face. Her skin was pale, but it was always pale. Another agent entered the bathroom. They didn’t know each other. Gayle nodded at her, and the other woman nodded back but didn’t take any special interest in her. That was good.

  She left the DECC and stepped outside into the darkness of the Duluth night. She crossed the street, where a strip of sidewalk and grass bordered the calm water of the harbor. Her eyes squeezed shut. Her breathing came faster. A ferocious headache pushed against her forehead. She wanted to scream, and she wanted to find a wall and beat it with her fists.

  Gayle heard footsteps. Someone was following her. Quickly, she wiped her eyes, which had leaked tears. She pasted a calm expression onto her face and turned around. Stride stood facing her, only six feet away.

  “You heard?” she asked.

  “Yes, Pat told me.”

  “Are you here to blame me?”

  “I’m here to make sure you’re okay.”

  Gayle didn’t answer. She spun back to the harbor, because she felt her face grow hot, and she knew she was going to cry again. She couldn’t let him see that. She couldn’t risk being taken off the case. Her tears were silent, but he came up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “This wasn’t your fault, Durkin,” Stride said. “A ricochet? That’s a one-in-a-million bad break.”

  She still said nothing, because she knew her voice would be a mess.

  “I don’t blame you,” Stride went on. “No one on my team is going to blame you. And Officer Kenzie’s family will understand when we tell them. It’s a tragedy, but you didn’t make this happen.”

  Gayle stared up at the stars in the night sky. Finally, sh
e turned around, and her glassy, tear-streaked stare met his eyes, which were watching her closely. “Come on, Stride. Maloney already asked me. You can ask me, too. I know what you want.”

  “Okay,” he said quietly. “Are you still absolutely certain that Rashid had a gun?”

  She saw it again.

  The flash of silver in Rashid’s hand.

  “Stride, I’ve been replaying that moment over and over in my head. Everything happened so fast. Rain was pouring down. The lightning came and went like a flashbulb. I’m telling you, I saw a gun. I saw Rashid raising his arm, pointing toward Officer Kenzie. If you asked me to swear on a stack of Bibles, I’d do it. Except I’ve talked to enough eyewitnesses to know they make mistakes about this shit all the time.”

  “Yes, they do,” Stride said.

  “So am I sure? No. Not anymore. And, yeah, I know, it’s a big deal, because without Rashid killing Kenzie, we don’t have any evidence of him being guilty of anything. Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. For the life of me, I don’t know. If he’s innocent, he’s already paid a horrible price for my mistake.”

  She stared at Stride, as if he could give her answers, even though she knew he couldn’t. She felt as if she could unburden herself to him, as foolish as it was. He owed her nothing. His team didn’t like her. If he wanted to get her kicked off the investigation, he probably could. Even so, he had a way of commanding trust, and she typically didn’t trust anyone.

  “I understand there’s a box on the FBI job application about being perfect,” Stride said. “Did you forget to check that?”

  Gayle gave him a broken laugh. “I guess so.”

  “Look, if I see what I think is a gun, I call it out,” Stride told her. “The alternative gets people killed. And, yeah, sometimes human beings make mistakes, and the results can be tragic. But if my best judgment tells me it’s a gun, I still call it out. If I’d been standing in your shoes, I would have done exactly the same thing.”

  “Thanks.”

  Stride’s phone rang. He backed up and took the call, and he didn’t say much as he listened. Gayle replayed the moment in the cemetery in her head. She knew she wouldn’t do anything else for a long time. She’d see it in her waking hours, and she’d see it in her dreams.

  He hung up the phone and gestured to her. “Come on, Durkin, let’s go.”

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Someone just called 911,” Stride said. “Rashid was spotted in the Woodland neighborhood on Kolstad Avenue. We’re surrounding the area.”

  43

  Malik moved like a ghost through the backyards. In the darkness, he was mostly invisible. He wore a loose-fitting XXL black sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head, dark jeans, and black sneakers. Despite the night, he used sunglasses. He didn’t want anyone to see his face too clearly. If the police or the neighbors spotted him, they’d realize that the man on the run was not Khan Rashid. And then the plan would fail.

  He stayed hidden, except when he crossed from one street to the next like a cat. The lots here were flat and big, dotted by tall trees. No one had fences. Without a light, he had to move slowly, ducking past detached garages and swing sets and pushing through wooded lots that were dense with weeds. Every now and then, a chained dog barked and growled, but no one came outside to investigate. Near one house, he had to wait for a man to finish a cigarette and return inside from the redwood deck before he could slip across the yard.

  When Malik was ten blocks away, more than a mile from the house where Khan was hiding, he made the call. He had a pay-as-you-go phone, and he found a quiet place to dial 911. He was nervous, but nervousness was fine. Anyone making this call would be close to panic, and it was okay for the police to hear it in his voice.

  “I was just driving home from the Woodland neighborhood, and I saw a man run across the street right in front of my car. He looked right at me, and I recognized him. It was that man the police have been trying to find. The bomber? The man named Rashid? I was headed east on Mankato Street toward Woodland Avenue, and this man was running south on Kolstad Avenue toward Hartley Park. He was wearing a black hoodie and jeans.”

  Malik hung up and started moving again.

  He kept an ear to the wind, expecting sirens, and he wasn’t disappointed. Barely a minute passed before he heard them. They were distant, but they grew louder, and they came from every direction, like insects to the light. They’d all be here soon. The police. FBI. SWAT. Helicopters overhead. They’d bring their assault rifles and their robots. They’d abandon their other positions and leave Khan a path to escape across the golf course and drive south out of the city.

  Malik kept off the street, but he stayed parallel to Kolstad Avenue, heading south on a dense trail through the woods. He’d hiked here many times, so he knew the area well. Where the path ended near Wabasha Street, he found himself between two little white houses. A streetlight made it impossible to stay in the dark. He jogged to the corner, catching his breath and leaning against a fat elm tree where the shadows protected him. The streets were still empty, but the police were close. Silhouettes appeared in the house windows as the sirens became screams and neighbors realized that something strange was happening just outside their doors.

  Everyone would know soon.

  The bomber was here.

  Malik broke cover and crossed the street. His timing was bad. Headlights flooded to life not half a block away, from a police car coasting silently down the street. It accelerated with a screech as the driver spotted him, and a bullhorn crackled through the air.

  “Freeze! Stay where you are!”

  Malik ran down the middle of Ewing Avenue. As he did, he drew his pistol from inside his belt. Behind him, tires squealed as the squad car jerked around the street corner. He stopped, cocked the weapon, and turned around and fired toward the windshield of the police car. Once, twice, three times. Brakes jerked the car to a stop. Glass shattered. He saw the driver’s door fly open, and Malik spun away and ran again.

  Bullets followed him.

  The police officer fired again and again. The game was on. Here I am. Chase me.

  He cut from the street into the nearest yard, where the frame of the house blocked him from the cop. He wasn’t concerned about noise now. He ducked between a red pickup truck and an open garage and fought his way through a swath of lilac bushes. He heard boots behind him, but there were no more gunshots. He jumped a low chain-link fence and zigzagged from house to house, hugging the walls. When he stopped and listened, he heard sirens everywhere, almost on top of him. He sucked in a breath and charged down a narrow driveway that broke out onto Anoka Street.

  Another squad car was there, its lights off. Another police officer was there, covered behind the open door of the cruiser.

  “Stop! Hands in the air!”

  Malik fired. A bullet hit the cruiser door. Another sailed high. The cop ducked down but then spun from the car and fired back multiple times. Dirt and gravel spit from the ground around Malik, and he leaped toward the cover of the nearest tree, but he was too late. A bullet hit his leg, shattering bone, and his weight carried him down. He rolled over onto his back, the gun still in his hand.

  The cop stood up.

  Mistake.

  They both aimed. They both fired again, over and over, a hail of bullets. Bark from the tree exploded. Dust made a cloud. The cop shouldn’t have missed, but somehow, he did. Malik, dizzied by pain, took a wild shot that never should have hit a thing, but somehow, his bullet drilled through the cop’s throat, sending up a spray of blood. The cop’s gun fell; his hands flew to his throat. Malik pushed himself to his feet immediately. His right leg dragged like dead weight. The street was dark, and the cop couldn’t see his face, so he didn’t waste time firing again. He needed to get away, so he crossed in front of the squad car and lost himself in the maze of trees and yards.

  He limped as fast as he could. More cops would be converging on the area in seconds. Blood trailed behind hi
m, running in a warm stream down his skin and leaving a path for anyone to follow. He passed a back porch and found someone’s T-shirt draped over the wooden railing. He grabbed it and tied it around his leg, soaking up the blood, and then he pushed his way into the trees to cover his trail.

  He kept going. The lights of the police cars were bright enough and close enough to light up the sky above the trees like fireworks. He heard their radios and the bark of voices nearby. Cops were in the woods. Dogs bayed. Close by, windows and doors slammed shut. As word spread, the neighborhood locked down. He was lost and dizzy. His leg was numb, and blood overtook the tourniquet. Pain throbbed with his heartbeat, like a hot poker pressed over and over to the hole in his skin.

  He knew he couldn’t go much farther.

  He staggered across another street, but he didn’t know which one. An open stretch of grass lay in front of him, between a stand of trees and a two-story beige house with a screened porch in the rear. Behind the house, he spotted a windowless aluminum storage shed with a red door.

  Malik crossed the grass. He couldn’t support his weight anymore. When he slipped to his knees, he crawled. There were lights on in the house, but no one came to the windows, and no one looked outside. He dragged himself past a fenced garden filled with tomato vines and stopped at the door of the storage shed. It slid upward on tracks, and he threw up the door and rolled inside. With a bang, the door slammed closed behind him. The interior smelled of soil and fertilizer. In the blackness, he couldn’t see anything, but he heard the buzz of bees as he disturbed a hive nestled in the beams overhead.

  Your Lord told the bees, build homes in the hills and trees and in the structures made by men.

  Malik sank backward, his body wedged against the metal door. He listened to the angry bees, and he waited for the end.

  ***

  The neighbors on Northfield Street had given Ethan only one rule for house-sitting: Don’t let the cat out.