Brian Freeman - Marathon

Durkin shrugged. “Do what you need to do, but it still sounds to me like you’re chasing zebras.”

Serena smiled. A “zebra” was a wild or overly complicated explanation for a simple crime. Some cops, when they heard hoofbeats, looked for zebras instead of horses. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” she admitted.

“Since you’re looking into the shop, I have another question for you,” Durkin went on. “How well do you know Drew and Krista Olson?”

“Pretty well. They adopted Cat’s baby.” She could hear an undercurrent of suspicion in Durkin’s voice. “Why? What is this about?”

“I did some research on the businesses affected by the blast,” Durkin replied. “The Olsons are having a difficult stretch. The shop fell behind on a lot of its bills this spring.”

“It’s retail,” Serena said, “and we didn’t have much of a spring. The weather kept a lot of tourists away.”

“Yes, but I found something strange. The Olsons purchased a terrorism rider on their commercial insurance policy last year. If this incident is certified as a terrorist attack, they’re fully covered.”

Serena shrugged. “So they were smart.”

“Maybe, but you have to wonder why a struggling business in a small city like Duluth would pay extra for that kind of protection,” Durkin went on. “It’s almost like they knew something was going to happen.”

“When did you hear the shot?” Stride asked.

He examined the broken window and turned around to find the matching hole in the bedroom ceiling where the bullet was lodged. The sharp angle suggested that the shooter had been across the street from the Muslim Student Center house.

Haq Al-Masri checked his watch. “An hour ago. Just after dark. We heard glass breaking and then the noise of a car speeding away. By the time I got outside, the car was gone. I think it headed west, but that’s all I can tell you.”

“No one was hurt?” Stride asked.

“Fortunately, we were all downstairs when it happened. If someone had been in this bedroom, they could have been killed.”

“I’m sorry. I’m glad your students are all okay.”

“They’re not okay, Jonathan. They’re scared and angry. Dawn Basch tweeted a photo of this house, and we immediately became a target for her followers.”

“I’ll try to position a squad car on the street outside the house for a few hours,” Stride said. “That should dissuade anyone else who gets ideas about targeting the place. The challenge is, we’re spread thin because of the manhunt.”

“Yes, there are always resources to hunt Muslims,” Haq replied acidly, “but when vigilantes shoot at us , the police are nowhere to be found.”

Stride’s eyes were dark in the bedroom. “I lost a man last night. Try to remember that.”

“I do. And I’m sorry.”

“Let’s go downstairs,” Stride suggested.

He took the narrow staircase to the main floor of the student house, with Haq close behind him. A cluster of young men sat in a circle on the living room floor, far from the windows. The room was lit only by candles, which left their faces in shadow. He could see suspicion and mistrust when they looked at him, as if he was an enemy. He went through the screen door onto the porch and then onto the grass near College Street. Haq followed.

“Can you arrest Basch?” Haq asked.

“She hasn’t committed a crime,” Stride replied.

“No crime? She’s out there encouraging vigilantes to act against Muslims. She knows exactly what she’s doing. And the result is a bullet through our window.”

“Haq, I wish there was more I could do, but she hasn’t even come close to crossing a legal line. It’s hard enough getting a stalker who sends actual threats of violence behind bars. Basch calling Muslims radicals in her tweets is protected speech. I can’t stop her.”

“And you wonder why we get frustrated,” Haq said. “Where are our Constitutional protections?”

“We’ll do everything we can, but you should tell your community to be cautious. The city is hot. Everyone’s on edge. People lost friends and family, and they’re angry.”

“We want justice as much as you do, but shooting at our windows isn’t justice. Hounding Khan Rashid isn’t justice. This is a lynching of an innocent man and of an entire people.”

“Do you still think Khan is innocent?” Stride asked. “He shot a police officer.”

“I’m sorry, no, I don’t believe that. There’s some other explanation. Khan doesn’t even own a gun.”

“Witnesses saw him with one,” Stride said.

“Then the witnesses are wrong.”

Stride sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Where is he, Haq? Where’s Khan hiding?”

“I don’t know. That’s the truth.”

“Would you tell me if you knew?” Stride asked.

“Honestly? I’m not sure. It’s not you that I don’t trust, Jonathan. It’s all the others. I’m afraid of what they’ll do to him.”

“Then help me arrange a peaceful surrender,” Stride said.

Haq hesitated. “I’m trying do that.”

“So you do know where he is.”

“No, but I’ve reached out to a lawyer, and we’re trying to work out a plan and find a way to get a message to Khan. There has to be a way to do this without bloodshed and to make sure his rights are protected.”

“That’s what I want, too,” Stride said.

“Forgive me for saying that that doesn’t count for much right now,” Haq replied.

“What about Ahdia Rashid? And her son? Where are they?”

“Safe,” Haq said.

“If you know their location, you should tell me. Wherever they are, they’ll be safer in protective custody.”

“Right now, I think it’s better to keep them hidden. They know nothing about any of this, Jonathan. All they want is to get their lives back. Ahdia is no radical, and neither is Khan. They are decent, hardworking, religious Americans.”

“What about Malik Noon?” Stride asked.

“Khan is not Malik.”

“Do you know where Malik is?”

“No.”

“Would Khan turn to him for help?”

“Maybe. If he’s desperate, he might turn to a friend.”

“Don’t you see how this looks, Haq?” Stride asked. “Malik is a radical, but Khan isn’t, except now they may be together. I can’t take claims of innocence at face value, not with a dead cop in that cemetery. The FBI already thinks I’m naïve to give Khan the slightest benefit of the doubt.”

Haq grabbed Stride’s arm. “I know you’re making a leap of faith to trust me. I promise you, if I find Malik, I will tell you. And I’m doing everything in my power to arrange for Khan to turn himself in peacefully. When he does, and you talk to him, you’ll see that I’m right. I don’t know what happened in that cemetery, but it’s not what you think.”

“I have to go,” Stride said. “I’ll get an officer to park in front of the house. Until then, stay away from the windows.”

“It’s not just this place,” Haq replied. “Basch has been going all over the city with her ‘radicalduluth’ hashtag. She posted a picture in front of our mosque. She posted at a Muslim-owned bakery. She posted in front of a house owned by an Indian doctor. Is there really nothing you can do to stop this?”

“I wish there was,” Stride said, “but she’s within her rights.”

Haq exhaled in disgust. “People in our community are on guard, but we can’t be everywhere all night, Jonathan. And yes, I know, you’re spread thin.”

“Get me a list of the places she’s tagged,” Stride told him. “I’ll do what I can.”

Haq slid his phone from his back pocket. Immediately, he went to Twitter and ran a hashtag search and scrolled through a series of posts from Basch and her followers. “Look, she’s already posted three more photos in the past hour. And do you see what people are saying in their comments? These are threats . What more does it take to show incitement?”