Marathon

by Brian Freeman

  Skyline Parkway twisted and climbed until he reached the bridge over the waterfall at Chester Creek. He’d met Stride in the park there on Saturday night. Four days seemed like a lifetime ago, when the violence and bitterness in the city was just beginning.

  He climbed one last hill, and he was back on the wide lawns near the Aftenro Home, a senior center only a block from the UMD campus. He bent over, his hands on his thighs, and let his breathing come back to normal. He unhooked a water bottle from his belt and squirted warm water into his mouth. It was cooler in the shade of the firs, and he slid down the trunk of a nearby tree and sat with his eyes closed. He undid the laces of his sneakers. He may have slept for a while.

  “Salaam Alaikum, Haq.”

  His eyes shot open as heard the quiet voice above him. He squinted into the shadows and saw a man standing among the evergreen branches. He didn’t recognize him at first, but when he did, he scrambled to his feet.

  “Khan!”

  They embraced, but it was a sad embrace. As they stood with linked arms, Haq could see that Khan was a different man. It wasn’t just that he’d changed his physical appearance. There had always been an inner peace to Khan, but that was gone. Hardness had taken its place.

  “They said you were dead,” Haq told him, “but I didn’t believe it.”

  “I’m not dead, but I don’t know if I’m alive, either. My heart still beats—that’s all I can say.”

  Haq glanced around the sprawling lawn to be sure they were alone. “Was it Malik?”

  Khan nodded. “I tried to stop him, but I was too late.”

  “Malik was beyond rescue,” Haq said. “Don’t blame yourself.”

  “Do the police think I’m dead?”

  “For the moment, yes, but it won’t take them long to figure out the truth. You realize it’s not safe for you to be here. You could be recognized. Whether you wanted him to do it or not, Malik gave you a head start to escape the city. My advice is that you take it.”

  “Guilty men run,” Khan said.

  “So do smart ones.”

  Their heads both turned as a car engine rumbled from the nearest driveway. Instinctively, Haq backed into the shadows, and so did Khan. Beyond a green hedgerow, an SUV backed out of the driveway and headed down a spur toward Skyline Parkway. There was no way the driver could have seen them, but they waited until the car was gone before they spoke again.

  “We’re as bad as everyone else,” Haq said with an ironic smile.

  “What do you mean?”

  “How do you define a conspiracy? Two Muslims talking.”

  “That’s not funny,” Khan said, frowning.

  “No, it’s not, because the rest of the world thinks it’s true.”

  Khan was silent. Then he said, “Malik claimed that he wasn’t responsible for the marathon bombing.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “He swore to me.”

  “I’m not sure the word of a suicide bomber means very much, Khan,” Haq replied. “Did Malik know who really was responsible?”

  “He said no, but he might have been protecting his friends in Minneapolis. Why, do you know who did it?”

  “You’re assuming it was one of us, too.”

  “I guess I am,” Khan admitted.

  Haq bent down and retied his shoelaces. He was tired. He wanted to go back to his house and put on Egyptian music and purge his soul of anger. Every time it built up, he needed a release. He put a hand firmly on Khan’s shoulder. “Listen, my friend, I need to ask your forgiveness.”

  “For what?”

  “I tried to save Ahdia and Pak. I was the one who went to your house and told Ahdia she needed to leave. I hid them at Goleen’s gallery because I thought they would be safe there. Instead, they died. It’s my fault.”

  “It’s not.”

  “I shouldn’t have interfered,” Haq said.

  “You had their best interests at heart. You couldn’t have predicted what would happen. Besides, we both know who was really responsible for their murders, don’t we?”

  Haq’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like what he heard in Khan’s voice. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Iblis walks among us. The Devil is right here in Duluth. You know who I’m talking about.”

  Haq did. He knew exactly who Khan meant.

  “And as the Qur’an says, do you intend to fight the friends of Satan?” he asked.

  “Yes, I do.”

  Haq shook his head. “No, Khan. You should leave. Go. Start a new life. Forget all the tragedies here.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not? Why make this your fight?”

  “Because Allah put me in this whirlwind for a reason,” Khan replied. “The last four days led me to this place.”

  Khan lifted up his shirt, and Haq saw the gun concealed in the loop of his friend’s belt. Haq wanted to scream. It never stopped. Hatred led to violence. Violence led to hatred. If only there were a way to stop this sickening ride long enough for everyone to get off.

  “I can’t help you,” Haq said. “I won’t help you. Not with something like that.”

  “I just want information. That’s all. If you really think you need my forgiveness about Ahdia and Pak, then that’s the price of it. This is my journey, not yours.”

  Haq felt a weariness that never went away. “All right. What do you want to know?”

  “I have only one question,” Khan said. “Where is Dawn Basch right now?”

  * * *

  Wade descended into the bowels of the Third Avenue building.

  He knew every inch of the tunnels that wound like a maze under the streets. Ordinary people took the skywalks. He preferred the subbasements. The dripping water, the smell, the hum of machinery, the rough brick walls—they were all old friends to him. The calendar on the nearest wall was his own. The supplies on the shelves and the traps on the floor were his. Aside from Travis, almost no one else came down here; he could spend hours all by himself. He joked that it was like his Florida office, right down to the humidity and the giant roaches.

  He used a flashlight in the corridor, rather than turn on an overhead fluorescent light. Mortar chips and plaster dust littered the damp floor. The ceiling, which was a web of pipes and wires, was low. If it was eighty degrees outside, the temperature was nearly one hundred down here, and the air didn’t move at all. He was sweating, but he didn’t mind the heat.

  Key West. That was where he needed to go. Uproot, leave the winters behind, and get drunk and stay drunk in Margaritaville. He’d always said he’d head for the steamy South someday. This was finally the time.

  He reached another dark tunnel. He dodged around steel support columns and plastic-covered pallets. The bricks here were covered in green mold. He turned a corner and found a flickering light illuminating one of the underground rooms. Plywood walls made storage enclosures for the building’s tenants, but most of the doors were open, with boxes stacked as high as the overhead pipes and filing cabinets stuffed with paperwork from decades-old contracts. He figured all the secrets of Duluth were buried down here somewhere.

  Not far away, he heard music. Something loud and modern. That was Travis. Stupid kid didn’t know to keep quiet anywhere. He found Travis at an old desk, next to a boom box playing a raspy track of Van Halen. Wade had spent hours working at that desk, listening to cassette tapes from the 1980s. His supplies were stored in paint cans on top of the dusty filing cabinets. The fluorescent light flickered; it was near the end of its life. Travis’s face went in and out of darkness.

  “Thanks for coming, man,” Travis said.

  Wade shrugged. “Yeah, whatever.”

  “Did you tell Shelly what’s going on?”

  “No. The fewer people who know, the better.”

  “Right, you’re right.”

  “Where are you planning to go, Travis?” Wade asked.

  “I don’t know. Arkansas, maybe. I was in Little Rock once. I can get settled under a new name
, and maybe Shelly can come down and join me. She’s going to need help.”

  “Yeah, she is.”

  “You’ll tell her, right? I’ll send for her when I can?”

  “Sure, I will.”

  Wade knew it was all a pipe dream. Travis didn’t have the smarts to run or to hide out or to live under a false name without giving himself away. He’d last a month. Maybe two. And then somebody would figure out who he was, and the police would come and drag his sorry ass back to Minnesota.

  He stared at Travis’s face. Sweat poured down from the kid’s hairline like a waterfall. Oh, yeah, he’d last a long time in Arkansas.

  “We had fun, huh?” Travis asked.

  Wade laughed. He saw a dead rat under the desk. Half a dozen cockroaches were stuck in a glue trap. “Yeah, killing shit is a blast, Travis.”

  “You think I should leave now or wait until dark?”

  “Whole damn city is looking for you. Wait until dark.”

  “I hate to ask, man, but I need cash. A few hundred.”

  “I’ve got money for you,” Wade told him, “but if it ever comes up, I didn’t help you at all, right? You didn’t get nothing from me.”

  “Right, yeah, I got it. What about a car?”

  “I know a guy in Mora. I’ll call him. A couple hundred will get you a beater, no questions asked. You can drive it until you’re out of state and then ditch it for something else.”

  “You’re the best, man. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Yeah. Sure. I’ll go up to the street and make the call. There’s no signal down here. Plus, I want to make sure there aren’t any cops casting eyes on the tunnels. With any luck, we’ll have a car for you by dark.”

  Wade turned on his heels, but Travis called after him.

  “Hey, Wade?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry, man. I just wanted you to know that.”

  Wade folded his arms across his scrawny chest and stared at the good-looking young kid. “Yeah? What do you have to be sorry about, Travis? Tell me.”

  “You know. Everything. I mean, things didn’t work out the way I figured they would.”

  “How did you think they were going to work out?” Wade asked.

  “Not like this, that’s for sure.”

  “Well, sit tight and don’t worry,” Wade said. “I’ll take care of it. Believe me, there’s not a problem I can’t fix.”

  Wade wasn’t lying.

  Travis had a problem, and he knew exactly how to fix it.

  He retraced his steps through the tunnels and let himself out through the metal door to the steps below Third Avenue. He grabbed his phone from his pocket and dialed the number from the card in his pocket. He figured she’d answer right away, and she did.

  “Sergeant Bei, it’s Wade Ralston,” he told her. “I need to talk to you about Travis Baker. Can you meet me right away?”

  50

  Stride knocked on Haq’s door. Haq answered immediately, but he didn’t look happy when he recognized Stride on the porch. Four days had aged Haq. His worry lines were deep, and his face was flushed. He checked the street, and then he waved Stride inside without a greeting.

  Haq led them into the house’s front room. Heavy curtains kept the room dark. One wall was lined with bookshelves, and the books were mostly leather-bound, Arabic volumes. A brick fireplace took up the opposite wall. Haq sat down in an overstuffed easy chair and gestured for Stride to take the yellow sofa.

  “What do you want, Jonathan?” he said finally. “I thought I made it clear we had no more business together.”

  “You did.”

  “So I guess this will be a short conversation.”

  “Maybe so,” Stride said. “I wanted to share some news with you.”

  Haq said nothing. His eyebrows arched impatiently.

  “The original identification of Khan Rashid was incorrect,” Stride told him. “The man who said Khan bumped into him on Superior Street now admits that he was mistaken.”

  “Of course, he was. I told you from the beginning that Khan wasn’t involved. You should have listened to me.”

  “That’s true, but you weren’t being completely honest, were you? You left out the most important part.”

  Haq’s face darkened. “What do you mean?”

  “You knew that Rashid didn’t bump into Michael Malville on Superior Street. You knew for a fact that the identification was wrong, because the man on Superior Street with the backpack was you.”

  Haq was silent, and Stride could see the man weighing what to say. Wondering whether Stride had any real proof. Debating whether to deny it or whether to acknowledge what they both knew. Finally, an arrogant smile crept onto Haq’s face.

  “Okay, yes, I heard this rich white suburbanite talking about No Exceptions. Explaining to his boy about Americans being entitled to say whatever they want. Typical simpleminded nonsense, dressing up racism in the gown of Lady Liberty. I admit, it made me mad, so I ‘accidentally’ bumped into him. Hard.”

  “You should have told me,” Stride said. “If you’d admitted it, we could have released a definitive statement that the identification on Twitter was an error. That Khan Rashid was not a suspect. Things might have turned out differently.”

  “Are you saying this is my fault?” Haq asked.

  “No, I’m not saying that, but it makes me wonder. Why didn’t you tell me it was you?”

  Haq rubbed a hand thoughtfully along his beard. Their eyes met across the dark room. The realization of what Stride was saying dawned on him slowly. “You consider me a suspect in the bombing. Me.”

  “You lied,” Stride said.

  “I said nothing that was untrue.”

  “Let’s not parse words. It was a lie of omission, Haq. It raises questions about what you were hiding.”

  Haq stood up, clenching and unclenching his fists. “So I should have served myself up as a suspect? When I knew I did nothing wrong? Look at what happened to Khan! You’re saying I should have volunteered for the same treatment? The same vigilantes out for my blood? I bumped into a man on the street, Jonathan. That’s all. Nothing more. I was doing exactly what Khan was doing that day. Looking for Malik. Trying to keep the marathon safe.”

  “Malville said your backpack felt heavy,” Stride pointed out.

  “Because I’m a professor, and I had books in it, as I typically do.”

  “Where is the backpack?” Stride asked. “Do you still have it?”

  Haq laughed bitterly and shook his head. “You want me to show it to you? Is that what it’s come to between us? You actually need physical proof that I am not a terrorist?”

  Stride said nothing. He waited.

  Haq stared at him in disbelief and then left the room with quick, impatient steps. Seconds later, he returned, carrying a bulging navy-blue backpack that he threw at Stride’s feet. The zipper was half open. Coffee-stained textbooks pushed from inside. “There. Are you satisfied?”

  “I’m sorry, Haq. I had to ask. I also need to know more about a meeting you had at the marathon building last Tuesday.”

  “What about it?”

  “What was the meeting?” Stride asked. “Who was involved?”

  “A half dozen of us from the mosque met with marathon officials about the Muslim runners we’d recruited for the race. Why is that important?”

  “Someone disconnected the cable for the marathon’s street camera that day,” Stride said. “It happened inside the marathon office.”

  “And you think it was one of us.” Haq made it sound like a statement more than a question.

  “Is that possible?”

  “No.”

  “You sound pretty sure,” Stride said.

  “I am sure. We walked in as a group, we met in a conference room, and we left as a group. I think I would remember someone crawling around on the floor unhooking cables. Now, is that all? Because I’d like you to leave my house, Jonathan.”

  “I have one more question,
” Stride said, making no move to get up.

  “What?”

  “Is Khan Rashid really dead?”

  Stride could see a crack in Haq’s composure. “You’re the one with the forensic experts. Talk to them, not me. What makes you think Khan might be alive, anyway?”

  “You,” Stride replied.

  “Me? I said nothing.”

  “When you first called me about Khan, you said he was a good man. I believe in your judgment about people. If that’s who Khan is, then I can’t see him luring police officers to their deaths with a suicide vest.”

  Haq’s chest swelled as he took a deep breath. “Well, even good men have their limits.”

  “Enough to commit murder?” Stride asked.

  “Maybe.”

  Stride stood up and went to Haq. They were eye to eye. “Tell me the truth. Was it Malik Noon in the shed?”

  He saw a battle going on in Haq’s face. His friend had begun to see him as an enemy, and you didn’t extend a hand of support to your enemies. Even so, they had a history together.

  Without a word, Haq slowly nodded.

  “Khan’s alive?” Stride asked.

  Another silent nod.

  “Is he on the run? Where is he? I want to protect him.”

  Haq’s mouth made a grim line. “He was on the run, but he came back. He came to see me.”

  “Why? What did he want?”

  “I told you, Jonathan. Even good men have their limits.”

  Stride heard alarm bells in the man’s tone. “Haq, what is Khan doing?”

  “He wants revenge. I tried to dissuade him. He wouldn’t listen.”

  “Revenge against whom?” Stride asked, but he already knew the answer. “Dawn Basch? He’s after Dawn Basch?”

  “He has a gun,” Haq told him. “He’s going to kill her.”

  Stride clapped a hand on Haq’s shoulder. “Thank you, my friend.”

  He headed for the front door, his phone in his hand, but Haq called after him. “Jonathan.”