Brian Freeman - Marathon

Ten feet away, in the crowd, Stride spotted a twenty-something male with his arms tightly folded across a camouflage jacket. The man’s mouth was a thin, angry slash, and he wore a baseball cap with #noexceptionsembroidered in large white stitching across the crown. The slogan on the hat was a red flag for Stride. The recent troubles in Duluth had a name, and the name was #noexceptions. That was the hashtag Dawn Basch used whenever she posted on Twitter. According to Basch, free speech was free speech. No ifs, ands, or buts. No exceptions.

The young man didn’t look like a threat, but Stride adjusted his leather jacket so that his badge was visible on his belt. Most of the people who sported the slogan were harmless, but some were spoiling for a fight, and he wasn’t going to let anyone disrupt the marathon. The mayor had spread the word in a press conference the previous day: No protests that could endanger the runners or the crowd would be tolerated.

His radio earpiece crackled to life.

“Hey, boss, I’m at the Guppo station,” his partner, Maggie Bei, announced. “It’s a party over here.”

Stride grinned and tapped his microphone. “What’s on the menu this year?”

“Fried mac-and-cheese balls. The things are amazing.”

“Are the runners actually getting any?” he asked.

“Yeah, Gina’s making sure that Max doesn’t eat them all.”

Stride laughed out loud. Over the years, the “Guppo station” had become legendary among marathon runners. Max Guppo was one of his detectives, built like a snowman, with a pumpkin-shaped torso and perfectly round head. Normally, marathon day meant all-hands-on-deck for the police, but Guppo had been excused for the past two decades to run an elaborate “nutrition stop” for the runners. It had started small, with Guppo, his wife, and their oldest daughter, Gina, handing out lemonade and crackers. Today, the Guppo station featured Max, his wife, all five of their daughters, a dozen volunteers, live music, and an endless supply of homemade, carb-heavy treats. They staked out a location near the race’s twenty-two-mile mark, just after the shallow slope called Lemon Drop Hill that nonetheless loomed like Kilimanjaro in front of the tired runners. At the Guppo station, they could get a jolt of encouragement and energy for the final miles leading into the heart of the city.

“Did Max see Serena?” Stride asked.

“Yeah, he says she’s looking good,” Maggie replied. “Did she get to you yet?”

“No, but she’ll be here soon, according to Cat.”

“Well, good for her. She’s crazy, but good for her.”

“Hey, she asked you to run with her, Mags,” Stride said, smiling.

“Yeah, no thanks. If I’m going to travel twenty-six miles, it’ll be in my truck.”

“With you driving, it’s safer to run.”

“Ha-ha,” Maggie replied sourly.

“I spotted one protester here in Canal Park,” Stride said. “Any issues up where you are?”

“No, we’re good for now. Guppo saw a couple people in #noexceptionsT-shirts, but there haven’t been any serious altercations with the Muslim runners. A few slurs from one jerk, but people in the crowd shouted him down.”

“Okay. Keep me posted.”

Maggie supervised the police security detail for the marathon. She sped up and down the race route in her yellow Chevy Avalanche all day, checking every detail from first aid stations and medical emergencies to parking and traffic.

This year, everyone was on high alert.

“Any sign of Dawn Basch?” Maggie asked Stride.

“Not so far.”

“Do you think she’ll stay away?”

“It’s not like her to be out of the spotlight, but let’s hope so,” he said. Stride signed off the call and switched off his microphone.

Dawn Basch lived for controversy, regardless of the consequences. She dared Islamist extremists: “If you want to shut me up, you’ll have to kill me.” At her last convention, in Portland, she’d nearly gotten her wish. A Muslim radical had stormed the hotel with an assault rifle and been shot dead by police in the lobby. The incident had sparked national headlines and made Basch even more famous. Or infamous. Hatred accompanied her wherever she went.

Now it was marathon day, and Basch was in their city. Stride was on edge.

“Hey, there’s Serena — there she is!” Cat shouted, grabbing the sleeve of Stride’s jacket.

Stride spotted Serena immediately among the runners making the turn toward Canal Park. She ran gracefully on her long legs, with no obvious sign of the fatigue she had to be feeling. She’d been training for an entire year, and her lean body showed the results. She wore black Lycra running shorts, fluorescent green sneakers, and a vibrant green-and-yellow tank top. Her black hair, tied in a ponytail, bounced behind her. Her expression was intense. Her skin was damp with sweat and rain. Beyond her, the city’s lift bridge loomed over the ship canal just behind the finish line. She was within steps of her goal.

Cat screamed with an ear-splitting volume that only a teenage girl could manage. “HEY! SERENA STRIDE!”

Her voice was so loud that other spectators giggled. Serena couldn’t help but hear her. Her face turned, and her lips creased into a smile. She winked at Cat and at Stride, and then she was gone, swept by onto Canal Park Drive, immersed in the pack of runners pounding out the last steps of their 26.2 miles.

Serena Stride, formerly Serena Dial.

His wife.

It was still strange for him to think of her that way. After several years of living together, they’d gotten engaged the previous summer and married in January at a tiny church on Park Point five blocks from the cottage where they lived. It had been an intimate ceremony, and they could count on two hands the people they’d invited to share the moment with them. Taking that step hadn’t come easily for them. He’d been unsure for years if he could truly say good-bye to his first wife, Cindy, and put his heart at risk again after her death. For her part, Serena had been unsure whether she could close the door on the childhood abuse that had made her reluctant to trust anyone who claimed to love her. They’d struggled in their relationship and even separated for a while, but they’d finally discovered that they weren’t afraid of the future. They didn’t need to be together, but they wanted to be together.

The day after he’d asked her to marry him — the day after she’d said yes — she’d told him of her plans to run the marathon the following year. He thought that it was her way of binding herself to the life she’d made there in Duluth. Marathons defined every kind of human commitment. Physical. Emotional. Spiritual. That same day, she’d started training.

“Can I head down there and wait for her to come out near the finish line?” Cat asked.

“Sure, go ahead.”

Stride watched Cat disappear into the crowd at a run, and that was when he heard Maggie in his headset again. Her voice had turned dark.

“Hey, boss? We may have a problem.”

“What’s up, Mags?”

“We’ve got a report of an unattended backpack,” Maggie replied.

It was 12:09 p.m.

The brace on Michael Malville’s foot made it uncomfortable for him to stand for long periods of time. He and his son, Evan, had staked out their place on Superior Street three hours earlier, and he now found himself favoring his good leg. He was ready to go home, but Evan was entranced by the marathon. They’d been here to see the wheelers speed by in low-slung wheelchairs as sleek and aerodynamic as a Corvette. They’d seen the lead runners keeping an unimaginable pace at mile twenty-four. Now the heart of the pack jogged past them dozens at a time.