Brian Freeman - Marathon

The sign that faced the street said: Give me your hand.

To Khan, in despair, that felt like an invitation. The church was dark, but he dragged himself up the driveway, staying close to the trees, and at the back of the church, Allah smiled on him. The rear door was unlocked.

He let himself inside into the darkness. He wouldn’t stay long. He didn’t know whether churches had alarms to warn of intruders. He took a chance by flicking a light switch, and when his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he found a church office with a phone on the oak desk.

Khan dialed his home number. It rang and rang with no answer. He hung up and dialed Ahdia’s cell phone, but it went straight to her voice mail. Somehow, he realized, she knew what had happened to him, and she’d fled. That was good, but it left him alone, hunted, with nowhere to go.

He had another number in his head.

It was a number to use only in emergencies, but if this wasn’t an emergency, nothing in the world was.

Khan dialed, and a familiar voice answered immediately. The voice of a friend who would drop everything to be there for him.

“Malik? It’s me. I need help.”

@mnwoodsygal tweeted:

SHOTS FIRED in Woodland area of Duluth. Heard the bombing suspect was spotted and is on the run.

@jeandulhut12 tweeted:

Wow! Sirens everywhere near UMD. I think every cop car in Duluth is here.

@jmbarker61 tweeted:

Got a sister in DPD. She says officer down. Asshole shot a cop. Hope they blow his brains out.:-(

@dawnbasch tweeted:

Duluth needs justice. The Muslim bomber is now a COP KILLER.

#marathon

#islamismurder

#noexceptions

2,261 people retweeted @dawnbasch

Stride found Dawn Basch in the lobby of the Radisson Hotel, where she sipped takeout coffee and took dainty bites from a blueberry scone. Her face was mostly hidden by large sunglasses. He noticed two private security guards stationed nearby, watching the hotel entrances.

The overnight storm had passed. Outside the hotel, Monday morning had dawned clear and sunny, and the high temperature was headed for the eighties. It looked like a beautiful day on the outside, but looks could be deceiving.

He took a seat next to her. “Good morning, Ms. Basch.”

She folded up the copy of the Duluth News Tribune she was reading. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone with longer fingernails.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” she said. “My condolences on the loss of one of your officers. What a terrible tragedy.”

Stride worked hard to keep his anger off his face. If there was one person he blamed for the events that had led to Dennis Kenzie’s death, it was Dawn Basch. With nothing but a Twitter account, she’d provided the match and the fire that had consumed the young officer.

“Have you apprehended this man Rashid yet?” she asked.

“No.”

“All these police everywhere, and one terrorist outsmarts them.”

He took a deep breath but didn’t take the bait. He didn’t want an argument with Dawn Basch. He wanted to say what he needed to say and move on.

“Special Agent Maloney and I have a request,” he told her.

“Oh?”

“We’d appreciate it if you would refrain from tweeting about the investigation while we have an active and dangerous situation in the city. We want people to remain calm and not put themselves in harm’s way.”

Basch pinched a chunk of scone between her fingers and popped it into her mouth. She brushed crumbs from her red skirt.

“More political correctness,” she said. “Didn’t the election teach you that people are sick of being told what they can and can’t say because it might offend somebody? The president calls it the way he sees it on Twitter. So do I, and I don’t intend to stop.”

“I’m not trying to censor you, Ms. Basch,” Stride continued. “I’m simply appealing to your good judgment. The city is on edge. We don’t need to give a green light to vigilantes or inflame emotions any more than they already are. That’s how people get hurt.”

“What you call vigilantes I call engaged citizens. They found the bomber for you, didn’t they? And then the police let him get away.”

“We don’t have any actual evidence yet that Khan Rashid was involved in the marathon bombing.”

Basch removed her sunglasses. Her eyes were cold. “Other than a dead cop?”

Stride felt his fingers tighten like vises around the arms of the chair.

“The situation last night got out of control, Ms. Basch, and, speaking candidly, you played a role in making that happen. You practically invited your followers to attack Rashid.”

“I did no such thing,” she replied. “I’m not responsible for the way frustrated people behave, but I’m not going to blame them for wanting to do something. If radical Muslims start worrying about ordinary Americans fighting back, maybe they’ll think twice and look for softer targets somewhere else. Or maybe they’ll go home, where they belong.”

Stride stood up.

“Mob revenge isn’t justice,” he reminded her. “You may be fond of saying ‘no exceptions’ about free speech, but inciting people to violence actually is an exception. Please be careful that you don’t cross the line.”

“Congratulations, Lieutenant,” Basch replied acidly. “The terrorists blow things up and murder people, and you waste your time trying to stifle my Constitutional rights. Well, I won’t be silenced by murderers, and I won’t be silenced by local government officials, either. Remember, Washington is on my side now.”

“Goodbye, Ms. Basch.”

Stride walked away, but Basch stood up and called after him. “Lieutenant?”

He turned and waited for her as she walked up to him.

“Do you want to know what I believe?” she asked. “Do you want to know why I do what I do?”

He didn’t answer, but she told him anyway.

“I believe this country is at war. We are in a war with Islam for the future of civilization, and either we win or we lose. There’s no middle ground. No room for compromise. Believe me, there is no such thing as an innocent Muslim, because when they’re forced to choose, they will choose their side over ours. Count on it. So we have our own choice to make. All of us. If we huddle in our homes like sheep, then we lose. The only ones who ever win a war are the wolves.”

When Cat didn’t return from her morning jog after two hours, Serena got into her Mustang and went to find her. She drove down the narrow strip of land called the Point, with the calm waters of the harbor on her right and the dunes of Lake Superior on her left. The road ended in a children’s park, which was empty except for dozens of seagulls bathing in the puddles left behind by the night’s storm.

She spotted Cat on a green bench by the bayside beach, her legs tucked beneath her. The teenager stared at the water, and strands of her long brown hair spilled across her face with the breeze.

Serena parked her Mustang and walked through the sand. She sat down next to Cat, but the girl didn’t react. “Hey.”

Cat said nothing.

She had a luminous face despite her sad eyes. It wasn’t just the ordinary prettiness of youth; she was a beautiful girl on her way to becoming a beautiful woman. When she smiled, she lit up the whole house, but she didn’t smile nearly enough. People had said the same thing about Serena at that age. You could walk away from your past, but it had a way of trailing behind you, like a shadow.

“I went to see Drew Olson yesterday,” Serena told her. “I saw Michael, too.”

Cat’s eyes were fixed on the water. “I know. I saw you.”