Brian Freeman - Marathon

“What do you think you’re doing?” Malik demanded.

“Leaving.”

“Are you crazy?”

“I don’t even know who you are anymore,” Khan said.

“I’m a fighter for Islam,” his friend replied.

“Don’t disgrace my religion with that garbage. You are a fighter for nothing . I don’t want to have anything to do with you.”

Malik breathed heavily, and then he let Khan go. “Fine. Get out of here.”

Khan wanted to run out the door, but he didn’t. He stood in silence. He tasted peanut butter on his tongue, making it feel thick. His veins coursed with sugar and adrenaline.

“Did you lie to me?” he asked finally. “The marathon bomb — was it you?”

“No.”

“Do you know who did it?”

“No, I don’t.”

“So who are you planning to kill, Malik? Other than yourself.”

Malik didn’t reply for a long time. Then he said, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re right. I don’t understand at all. It’s against everything I have ever believed. And from you? A man I call a brother? No, I will never understand.”

“I’m part of something larger than myself for the first time ever,” Malik said. “If I lose my life to fight back for Allah, then I’ve done something glorious.”

“Fight back against whom?” Khan asked.

“Dawn Basch.”

Khan pounded the floor. “So you murder this insufferable woman. And you kill yourself at the same time. Maybe others, too. Then what? What does it accomplish? Where does it end? All you do is bring down more violence on our heads. You give her exactly what she wants — proof that every Muslim is no better than a murderer.”

“Maybe that’s what we need to be!” Malik replied. “She’s right about one thing. This is a war, and I’m proud to be a soldier.”

“I won’t listen to this,” Khan told him. “Good-bye, Malik. I’m going to the police right now. I’m sending them here for you. If you want to escape, you’d better do it now. That’s all I can offer you.”

Khan headed for the door, but Malik called after him.

“What about Ahdia?” he said. “What about your son?”

Khan stopped. “What about them?”

Malik walked to Khan in the darkness and clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. “I know where they’re hiding. I came back here so I could take you to them.”

Serena found Special Agent Durkin on the pedestrian bridge between the DECC and Canal Park. The FBI agent had a sandwich in her hand, but rather than eating it, she tossed bits of bread into the water, where ducks fought for the prize. It was dark, but streetlights gave the area a yellow glow. The giant ore boat Charles Frederick floated in the channel.

“Agent Maloney said I’d find you here,” Serena said.

“Yeah, I just needed ten minutes to clear my head.” Durkin turned around and leaned against the railing. The lift bridge shimmered in silver a hundred yards away. “You’re Stride’s wife, right?”

“I am.”

Durkin took a quick, obvious glance at her from head to toe. Serena waited for the usual snarky comment about her looks. Even at forty years old, she maintained her showgirl face and body, and most cops assumed that she’d gotten where she was because of her sex appeal. However, Durkin surprised her.

“Sergeant Bei tells me you’re smart. Smarter than Stride. Even smarter than her, too.”

Serena laughed. “Maggie said that? Really?”

“Yeah. She said it made the size of your boobs doubly annoying.”

“Now, that sounds like Maggie,” Serena said.

“I know she’s not one of my fans,” Durkin added.

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“Please. Even my own people have started calling me the Gherkin.”

Serena suppressed a smile. “Well, Maggie can be a little sharp-edged. She and I have had our ups and downs over the years, too. The fact is, you’re a Fed, and you stole our investigation. It really doesn’t matter that you grew up in Duluth. She’s going to resent you.”

“I don’t mind sharp-edged. I’m sharp-edged myself. And I really don’t care whether people like me.”

“Still, this has to be a tough case for you,” Serena said.

“Because of my brother?”

Serena nodded.

“Believe me, the best thing I can do for Ron is catch Khan Rashid. The only thing I regret is not drilling a bullet through Rashid’s head before he shot Officer Kenzie. If I face the same opportunity again, I won’t miss.”

“Well, let’s hope we can bring him in without more violence,” Serena said.

Durkin didn’t rush to agree with her. It made Serena wonder whether, in her heart of hearts, Durkin really wanted to arrest Rashid or whether she’d prefer to face him down again, gun to gun. To make up for her mistake. To make up for Ron.

“So what’s on your mind?” Durkin asked.

“Stride tells me you have a photo of Khan Rashid coming out of the Duluth Outdoor Company shop during the marathon.”

“That’s right.”

“But no actual link to the bomb yet?”

“No, if the bomb was his handiwork, he didn’t do the assembly at his house. We’re checking GPS records in his cab to see where he’s been in the last few weeks. Hopefully, that will lead us to his hiding place.”

“Okay.”

Durkin read the hesitation in her voice. “You and Stride don’t sound convinced that we have our man, but the circumstantial evidence is piling up fast.”

“Yes, it looks that way.”

“But?”

“No buts,” Serena said. “I’m just trying to rule a couple of other things out.”

“I know you’ve been looking into this incident with the homeless guy at the shop,” Durkin said.

“Yes, I’m trying to find the guy and talk to him.”

“It’s pretty thin,” Durkin said.

“Normally, I’d agree with you, but there’s something about it I don’t like.”

The FBI agent threw the rest of her sandwich into the water, which caused a frantic cackling of ducks as they fought for what was left. “All right. Tell me about it.”

“The day after the incident at the shop, somebody spotted the homeless guy, Gary Eagleton — Eagle — drunk out of his mind and wearing a brand-new pair of boots from the Duluth Outdoor Company.”

“What’s your take on that?” Durkin asked.

“Eagle had money to buy booze. Where did he get it? If he’d stolen the boots, the store personnel would have spotted it, and they didn’t. So somebody gave him the boots after the incident. That tells me there’s a third party in the mix that we haven’t identified yet. I’d like to know who it was.”

Durkin thought about it. “I don’t see much of a mystery here. Eagle teams up with somebody to rob the store. He goes up into the loft and fakes a breakdown, and while the staff is distracted, his partner walks out with a bunch of merchandise. Eagle gets his share, fences some of it for drinking money, and keeps the boots for himself.”

“Yes, I thought the same thing,” Serena said. “Except the word on the street is that Eagle avoids Canal Park, doesn’t steal, and keeps to himself. None of that fits with him being part of a burglary scheme.”

“An alkie who needs a fix will do just about anything to get his hands on booze,” Durkin pointed out.

Serena knew that was true. She’d fought her own battle with vodka long ago and lost. In her twenties, in Las Vegas, drinking had almost killed her. Since then, she’d spent seventeen years on the wagon. The closest she’d come to a drink was the day two years ago when she’d found out about Jonny and Maggie’s affair.

“Maybe so, but I’d still like to know exactly what happened,” Serena said. “I’m canvassing local fences to see if anybody moved merchandise from the shop last week. I’d also like to talk to Eagle about who got him to go into that store.”