Brian Freeman - Marathon

“So what’s with all the coolers, Curt?” Serena asked.

“Craft beer! I make it myself. Really good stuff, really strong.”

“You make it yourself?” she said skeptically. “I never thought of you as a Dave Hoops kind of guy.”

Curt began flipping up the lids of his coolers to reveal dozens of growlers. “Oh, yeah! I’ve got jalapeno IPA, Elton John Island Girl stout, piss-it-away lager, Mauer’s Tripel Belgian ale, and a honey-wheat beer that I call Lesbian Honey because it tastes just like — well, never mind. You want to try something?”

“No, thanks,” Serena said.

Cat held up a growler of Lesbian Honey. “I’ll try it!”

“No, you won’t,” Serena told her. “I know it’s a waste of time to ask, Curt, but do you have a license to sell alcoholic beverages? Because I’m pretty sure you don’t.”

“License? Come on, Serena. I’m a libertarian guy. Live and let live. Down with government bureaucracy.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“How are sales going?” Cat asked.

Curt gave a thumbs-up. “Couldn’t be better. Most of the liquor stores are still closed, so I’m here with all the provisions people need for a week at the cabin.”

“Leave it to you to make money off this tragedy, Curt,” Serena said.

His smiled vanished, and he looked genuinely hurt. “Now that’s not fair. I want to see you catch this guy as much as anybody. I’m a Duluth boy, born and raised. Nobody messes with our marathon.”

Serena sighed. She couldn’t deny that Curt had an odd, incorrigible charm.

“Okay, I’m sorry to insult your reputation as an ambassador of the Zenith City, but the growler party’s over. When we leave, you leave — got it? And you get a free pass today, but next time, the beer goes into the lake.”

Curt frowned but didn’t protest. “Yeah, yeah, okay. So what do you guys need, anyway?”

Cat leaned over to examine the piercings through Curt’s nipples with an unhealthy curiosity. Curt showed a similar interest in the mocha-skinned cleavage visible through the top of Cat’s marathon T-shirt.

“You seen Eagle lately?” Cat asked him.

“Eagle? No, not since last week.”

“When exactly was that?” Serena asked. “Do you remember the day?”

“Wednesday, I think. I picked up a scone at the 3rd Street Bakery, and I spotted Eagle in an alley down the block.”

Cat cocked her head. “Sober?”

“No, I almost called 911, because he was so out of it. Looked like he’d gone through a few liters of booze.”

“Damn,” Cat said.

“Any idea where we can find him now?” Serena asked.

Curt dragged an Island Girl growler from the ice. He poured a cup, took a drink, and wiped foam from his mouth. “Eagle? No, good luck with that. I hear he sneaks into the old Nopeming Sanatorium sometimes if he can hitch a ride up to Midway. Or he gets into the downtown basements where it’s warm. Or he just finds a porch or an open window to do a sleepover at somebody’s house, and he’s gone before they wake up. Nobody finds Eagle unless he wants to be found.”

“I told you,” Cat said to Serena. She flicked one of the miniature silver barbells on Curt’s chest. “So did it hurt a lot to have that done?”

Serena spoke up before Curt could answer. “I’m sure it hurt so much that no human being would ever want to do that to themselves.”

Cat smirked. “I didn’t say I wanted them. I was just curious.”

“Yeah, let’s keep it that way.” Serena didn’t want to think about the day when Jonny spotted Cat with new accessories under her shirt. “Curt, we really need to find Eagle. Help us out.”

“Well, most people would buy a growler for a favor like that,” Curt replied, winking.

“I’m not most people,” Serena replied.

“Oh, fine, fine. For the wife of the Lieutenant, it’s free. Look, I meant it when I said you’re not going to find Eagle yourself, but I can put the word out. If anybody spots him, they call me, and I call Cat. Okay?”

“You call me ,” Serena told him. “This girl here, she’s like plutonium. Very, very radioactive. Understood?”

“Yeah, message received loud and clear,” he replied with a salute.

“Don’t worry, Curt,” Cat said, rolling her eyes. “Serena’s just being Mom.”

It was amazing how Cat could always find ways to throw Serena off-balance, in good ways and bad ways. This was a good way. Serena had never, ever heard Cat use the word Mom to describe her, and the way it had simply rolled off the girl’s tongue hit Serena with an emotional punch she hadn’t expected. She liked it.

“We need to go,” she murmured with a catch in her voice.

“Growler for the road?” Curt asked, sitting back down in his canvas chair. “Bring one home for Stride?”

“Don’t push it,” she told him.

“Yeah, okay. What do you want with Eagle, anyway?”

“There was an incident at Duluth Outdoor Company last Tuesday,” Serena said. “Eagle had some kind of breakdown. I want to find out more about it. Do you know anything?”

“Duluth Outdoor Company? You mean, where the bomb went off?”

Curt was many things, but he wasn’t stupid.

“That’s right,” Serena said.

Curt rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He sipped his beer and dangled his other hand in the water.

“Why, does that mean something to you?” Serena asked.

“Well, I did notice something on Wednesday when I saw Eagle. I don’t know if it’s important or not.”

“What?”

Curt pointed at his bare feet. “Eagle had new shoes. Nothing’s ever new about Eagle, but instead of his usual ratty sneakers, he had brand-new, right-out-of-the-box hiking boots. And speaking as someone who spends a lot of time in Canal Park, I can guarantee you, they were from Duluth Outdoor Company.”

The luxury SUV carrying Dawn Basch stopped in front of an old two-story house across from the UMD campus. The driver ran around to the rear of the vehicle to open the back door for her. Two security men climbed out of the backseat before her. She smoothed her red skirt and fluffed her curly hair.

“Now this is a gorgeous day, boys, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” they replied in unison.

Dawn slid her large sunglasses off her face and secreted them in a case inside her shoulder purse. With a toothy smile, she marched in her high heels onto the sidewalk in front of the house and examined the exterior with her hands on her hips. It was a small house but well maintained. The siding was beige, and the roof was covered in red shingles. Leafy hedges obscured most of the downstairs windows. Two side-by-side windows on the second floor looked out on the street, and she could see several young men crowded at the glass, staring out at her.

“Is this the place?” she asked one of the guards.

The retired Marine with the red crew cut nodded. “Yes, it is.”

“You’re absolutely sure? There’s no sign outside.”

“This is it, ma’am. I confirmed it this morning.”

“Excellent.”

The front door of the house opened. A Somali man, no more than twenty years old, stepped out onto the porch. He wore a kufi , a paisley shirt, and jeans, with open sandals on his feet. His face was grim.

Dawn waved cheerily.

She took out a selfie stick from her purse and snapped her phone into the plastic frame. Ignoring the men at the upstairs windows and the man on the porch, she undid the joints of the metal stick and extended it to its full length. She unlocked the phone, switched to the front camera, and turned around so that her back was to the house. She extended the selfie stick in front of her and squeezed the button to snap a photo.