Brian Freeman - Marathon

Michael Malville sat on his front porch in Cloquet with a copy of the photograph of Khan Rashid in his hand. He’d studied it a thousand times, until he could see it even when he closed his eyes. The man’s face. His expression. His torso, twisted as he looked back over his shoulder, waiting for the bomb to explode. The anticipation. The nervousness. The guilt.

It was the same face that he’d seen on Superior Street. The same face, filled with hatred. It was him.

Michael swallowed down his regrets about what he’d done. Khan Rashid was guilty. He was the bomber. And yet Michael’s whole world was filled with doubt now. Ever since the news about the gallery fire and the death of the Rashids, he’d done nothing but replay the last few days in his head. He wondered, if he could go back in time, whether he would still push the button and tweet the photo of Khan Rashid, knowing what would happen next. Knowing that two people would die.

Beside him, Alison was quiet. She’d been quiet all day. Through the open windows, he could hear Evan playing inside, waging an imaginary battle against imaginary monsters. In front of them, gentle rain soaked the lawn and played music on the metal gutters.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” he asked, although he already knew.

Alison had one foot tucked beneath her on the Adirondack chair and one on the porch. Her blond hair was unwashed. “It’s nothing.”

“Come on, we’re past those games,” Michael said.

“Well, then, I don’t want to get you angry. Not today.”

He was self-aware enough to know that her worries were well founded. He got angry easily and too often. “I’ll try not to — that’s all I can say.”

“Okay. I’m upset. I keep thinking about that woman and her child dying the way they did. It’s horrible.”

“And you think it’s my fault?” Michael asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“I didn’t say that. If you’re going to get like this, then I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“It must have been so terrifying and painful. And for a mother — to know that her child was going to perish in her arms...”

“Try not to dwell on it,” he told her.

“I know, but I can’t think of anything else.” She reached out and took his hand. “I do not blame you, Michael.”

“Thank you.”

“But I do blame Dawn Basch,” Alison went on. “I told you from the day she arrived in town. that woman made me uncomfortable, and this is why. She had no reason to tweet out those photos except to incite people.”

Michael didn’t reply for a long time. “It’s still free speech. It’s not against the law.”

“Maybe, but we both know it’s wrong.”

“She couldn’t have known what would happen,” he said.

“Yes, she could. You’re not naïve.”

“Come on, Alison.”

“I’m serious. Innocent people died because of what she did. She knew something like that could happen.”

“We don’t know for certain that the wife was innocent,” Michael said. “I’m not excusing what happened, but I’m just saying, she could have been a co-conspirator.”

“And the child?”

Michael hesitated. “That was a terrible thing, of course.”

“I have a request.” Alison’s voice was soft but firm.

“Okay.”

“I don’t want you to have anything more to do with Basch or her No Exceptions crowd. No rallies. No books. Throw away the buttons and the hats. I don’t want them in our house. I don’t want Evan hearing about any of this.”

He was about to protest, but he had to make a choice, and he chose his wife. “Okay, if that’s what you want. I’ll give it up.”

She closed her eyes in relief. “Thank God.”

“I don’t support what she did, you know. She went too far.”

“Yes, she did.”

Michael stared at the photo in his hand again. “Are you being honest with me? Or do you think I’m partly to blame?”

“What do you think?” Alison asked.

“I think I pushed a stone downhill, and I had no idea how far it would go.”

His wife got up and knelt beside him and reached out to stroke his face. “You feel guilty, don’t you?”

“A little.”

“Well, unlike Dawn Basch, you couldn’t have predicted any of this,” Alison said. “I know you, Michael. Sometimes you rush in where angels fear to tread, but it’s never with malice. You’re a good man, and you have a good heart.”

“But you wish I’d never gotten involved,” Michael replied.

“You’re right. I wish you’d been able to let it go, even though I knew you couldn’t. I worry about the heartache this will cause you for the rest of your life. I hate that.”

“Yes, but I know what I saw. I had to say something.”

Alison kissed him before he could dive into his pool of self-justification. “I know what you think you saw, but it’s easy to convince yourself of things that aren’t true. I’ve been there, remember? Two years ago, I thought my husband, the love of my life, was capable of being a killer. I couldn’t have been more completely, horribly, terribly wrong. I still live with that guilt. That’s what scares me, Michael. What if you’re wrong, too? What if you simply made a mistake?”

“A single gunshot wound to the back of the head,” Stride said, staring down at the body of Eagle amid the debris of the Nopeming Sanatorium. Hot, damp air blew through the open window.

Serena stood in the bedroom doorway. “Based on the amount of alcohol he’d consumed in here, Eagle was probably passed out cold. It wouldn’t have been hard to sneak up on him. Guy comes in, takes the shot, and makes his escape.”

“Did anyone hear anything?” Stride asked.

“Not that we know of. There’s a caretaker apartment on the other side of the complex, but apparently it’s been empty for weeks. Otherwise, we’re in the middle of nowhere, so if you’re going to shoot someone, this is a good place to do it.”

Stride joined her in the hallway, which was a wreck of standing water, fallen ceiling tiles, and broken glass. He saw hundreds of tiny yellow paint pellets, remnants of mock battles played inside the ruins by war gamers. Among the debris was the head of a chicken, too, and the horned skull of a ram, surrounded by candle wax. Even Satanists found their way to Nopeming.

“Good luck with the forensics in this place,” he murmured.

“Yeah.”

“Assuming nobody else heard the shot, what do we know about time of death?”

“The M.E. thinks somewhere from two to four days ago. The autopsy may tell us more, but the heat and humidity won’t make it easy to narrow down. It could have been before the marathon, could have been after. According to Cat, Curt Dickes said that someone spotted Eagle on the railroad tracks near Becks Road on Friday. He was heading in this direction.”

Stride studied the corridor

“You said Eagle was hard to find,” Stride said, “so how did the perp locate him out here?”

“It could have been an arranged meeting. Or our guy could have slipped a GPS tracker onto Eagle to follow him. Based on the way this played out, I think the murder was premeditated. This guy came out here specifically to kill him. The guy took Eagle’s boots, too. Eagle wasn’t wearing any shoes. That’s important.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“Curt saw Eagle wearing brand-new boots from the Duluth Outdoor Company. That was last Wednesday, the day after the incident at the shop. The boots aren’t here, which means the killer took them with him.”

“So maybe the killer wanted the shoes for himself,” Stride said. “It wouldn’t be the first time a homeless guy killed another one over something like that.”