Brian Freeman - Marathon

“Mr. Ralston?” she said. “My name is Maggie Bei. I’m a sergeant with the Duluth Police.”

He fixed her with suspicious blue eyes. He wasn’t an attractive man, and his skin had a post-surgery paleness. “Yeah? About time you showed up.”

She couldn’t blame him for being angry. “I heard about your wife, sir. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Don’t tell me how sorry you are,” Ralston snapped. “Tell me you got the guy who did this.”

“There are literally hundreds of law enforcement personnel around the country working twenty-four hours a day to identify and capture whoever was responsible,” she told him, but she knew it didn’t offer any comfort. She’d said the same thing to dozens of witnesses and victims today.

“So in other words, you got nothing,” he concluded.

The television was loud, and Ralston switched it off with the remote control.

“How are you feeling?” Maggie asked him.

“Let’s see, somebody ripped up my stomach with glass and nails, and the docs had to go in and fish it out. They’re feeding me through a tube. So the answer is, I’m feeling like shit, Sergeant.”

“Yes, I understand. Have the doctors told you when you’ll be released?”

“Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day. They need me back on solid food first. In the meantime, I’m losing money.”

“You own a local extermination business?” she asked.

“Right. It’s mostly commercial rather than residential. I’ve got contracts with dozens of downtown buildings.”

“Was this your first time running the marathon?”

“No, marathons are my thing. I’ve done Chicago twice, Twin Cities twice, and Milwaukee twice, too.”

“That’s impressive,” Maggie said. “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary while you were running the marathon route this year? Any odd behavior from spectators, or something that looked unusual?”

Ralston thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, nothing.”

“How about on the last block through Canal Park?”

“I was focused on the finish line, not the crowd. I saw Joni, Shelly, and Travis cheering me on — that’s it. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground.”

Maggie switched her attention to Travis Baker, who dwarfed the chair in which he was sitting. He wore a T-shirt that showed off his physique, which was molded like stone. For women who liked their men big and dumb, Travis was a prime specimen. Maggie had a bit of a weakness for muscle-bound weightlifters. Her boyfriend, Troy, was built the same way.

“Mr. Baker, where were you standing when the bomb went off?” she asked him.

“Right in front of the Duluth Outdoor Company, with Wade’s wife, Joni, and my sister, Shelly.”

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Maggie told him.

“Yeah, I know it. A tree saved me. It took the brunt of the blast.” Travis looked down at his friend on the hospital bed. “If I’d known what was going to happen, I would have pulled Joni in front of me. I’m so sorry, man. If I could trade places with her, I would. You know that.”

Ralston didn’t say a word.

“How is your sister, Shelly?” Maggie asked.

Travis’s fists grabbed on to the hard plastic shell of the chair, as if he could lift himself off the ground. “I haven’t been able to talk to her yet. She’s still unconscious. Docs say she’ll pull through, but they had to — shit, they had to take both of her legs below the knees. Can you believe that? My sis ain’t never gonna walk again because of those shithead terrorists.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Maggie said. “Did the three of you go to Canal Park together?”

Travis wiped his nose, which had begun to run. “No, I picked up Joni at Wade’s place. Shelly lives in a Central Hillside apartment, so she walked and met us there. That sucks, huh? She walked. And her apartment is on the fourth floor. No elevator. What’s she going to do when she gets out?”

Maggie could have talked about the magic of prosthetics, but that was for the doctors to do. And it wouldn’t change the long, tough road his sister faced. “Did you spend the entire time in that same spot near the Duluth Outdoor Company?” she asked Travis.

“No, we met Shelly at Starbucks. Joni is — was — a big Frappuccino fan. We hung out at the coffee shop until maybe half an hour before Wade was supposed to be finishing, and then we made our way down the block. Joni knew Wade would be looking for us, so we stayed there until the bomb went off.”

“And you were completely uninjured?”

“I got some cuts on my arms and shoulders,” Travis told her, “and I couldn’t hear too good for a couple hours. I still got this ringing in my ears. Otherwise, I’m fine.”

Maggie felt her phone vibrating in her pocket. She excused herself and went into the hospital corridor to take the call. Through the outside windows, she could see that the evening sun was waning.

“Serena,” she said. “How’s the body today?”

“Feels like someone has been hitting me with a hammer,” Serena replied.

“Well, next time, skip the marathon, and I’ll bring the hammer,” Maggie told her.

She was on thin ice making a joke like that, but Serena laughed, anyway. They’d gone a long way in repairing their relationship over the past year. Maggie looked back on the brief months when Stride and Serena had been apart — and the even briefer months when she’d slept with him herself — as a kind of dark winter among the three of them. She didn’t blame Serena for freezing her out after she got back together with Stride. The truth was, Maggie blamed herself for crossing a line with Stride that she’d known would be a mistake. He was better off with Serena and happy being married to her. She liked seeing him happy again.

For as long as Maggie could remember — from her earliest days as a cop — she’d had a crush on Stride. His first wife, Cindy, had known about it. Serena had, too. It had served mainly to give Maggie an excuse not to pursue a real relationship, and every time she did try to get serious with someone, the results were disastrous. If the affair with Stride had done one good thing, it had broken Maggie’s fever. She wasn’t in love with him anymore. She’d found a new boyfriend, and she’d broken her personal record by spending nearly a year with him without the relationship imploding. She and Troy made an odd pair. Troy Grange was a single father who looked a little like Mr. Clean and acted that way, too. She was an overly horny comedian with a bad haircut. They didn’t see each other often — and they’d avoided “the talk” about whether they were in a real relationship — but for the time being, it worked.

“So what’s going on?” Maggie asked Serena.

“Last Tuesday, there was an incident at Duluth Outdoor Company. Do you remember it?”

“Sure, a homeless guy had a fit,” Maggie said. Her memory was near-photographic. “What about it?”

“Did you ID the guy?”

“Yeah, Guppo confirmed it with one of the store clerks. His name’s Gary Eagleton, but his street name is Eagle. That’s what everyone calls him.”

“Did anyone talk to him?” Serena asked.

“No, we never found him. Guppo figured he was laying low. Tracking him wasn’t a high priority, because he hadn’t done anything wrong. The most we could have done is make sure he was okay.”

“All right.”

“Why are you asking about this? Do you think there’s a connection to the bombing? Eagle doesn’t strike me as a terrorist.”

“I just don’t like the timing,” Serena replied.

“Did you tell the Gherkin?”

Maggie heard Serena laughing on the other end of the phone. “I did. She wasn’t too interested. Then again, neither was Jonny. It’s probably a dead end, but I’d like to find Eagle myself and make sure that’s true.”