Brian Freeman - Marathon

“I understand. Based on stone residue found on the bullet, the ballistics team believe the bullet likely ricocheted off a headstone in the cemetery and struck Officer Kenzie.”

“Oh, my God.”

“It was a freak accident,” Maloney told her. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Gayle tried to find words, but she didn’t have any. She could feel the rain on her skin again. She remembered the heaviness of the gun in her hand. The lightning blinded her. She heard her own voice, shouting. She felt the recoil as she fired.

Her gun.

She’d killed a police officer.

“What — what happens next, sir?” she asked.

“There will be a full investigation, which should be completed within two weeks. Given your report and the ballistics findings, I don’t believe any blame will attach to you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Gayle replied, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Typically, we encourage agents involved in shootings to take five days of administrative leave. If you wish to do so, you should, and we’ll make mental health support services available to you.”

“Am I required to take leave, sir?” she asked. “Because with the bomber still out there, I’d rather stay.”

“No, it’s optional at the agency, and if you’d prefer to continue working, I’d prefer that for now, too, because I need you on this investigation. But if there’s any hint of this situation affecting your performance, I’ll pull you from active duty immediately. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’ll be all, Durkin.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Gayle turned around and left the office. She put one foot in front of the other, not wanting Maloney to see any hesitation in her walk. She squared her shoulders, keeping her expression blank for any of the other agents who might be looking her way. Outside, she made her way to the restroom at the far end of the hallway, and she made sure she was alone before she locked herself in a stall.

Then she sank to her knees and threw up.

She closed her eyes and made sure she was done, and she stood up unsteadily and left the stall. At the sink, she rinsed her mouth and washed her face. Her skin was pale, but it was always pale. Another agent entered the bathroom. They didn’t know each other. Gayle nodded at her, and the other woman nodded back but didn’t take any special interest in her. That was good.

She left the DECC and stepped outside into the darkness of the Duluth night. She crossed the street, where a strip of sidewalk and grass bordered the calm water of the harbor. Her eyes squeezed shut. Her breathing came faster. A ferocious headache pushed against her forehead. She wanted to scream, and she wanted to find a wall and beat it with her fists.

Gayle heard footsteps. Someone was following her. Quickly, she wiped her eyes, which had leaked tears. She pasted a calm expression onto her face and turned around. Stride stood facing her, only six feet away.

“You heard?” she asked.

“Yes, Pat told me.”

“Are you here to blame me?”

“I’m here to make sure you’re okay.”

Gayle didn’t answer. She spun back to the harbor, because she felt her face grow hot, and she knew she was going to cry again. She couldn’t let him see that. She couldn’t risk being taken off the case. Her tears were silent, but he came up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder.

“This wasn’t your fault, Durkin,” Stride said. “A ricochet? That’s a one-in-a-million bad break.”

She still said nothing, because she knew her voice would be a mess.

“I don’t blame you,” Stride went on. “No one on my team is going to blame you. And Officer Kenzie’s family will understand when we tell them. It’s a tragedy, but you didn’t make this happen.”

Gayle stared up at the stars in the night sky. Finally, she turned around, and her glassy, tear-streaked stare met his eyes, which were watching her closely. “Come on, Stride. Maloney already asked me. You can ask me, too. I know what you want.”

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Are you still absolutely certain that Rashid had a gun?”

She saw it again.

The flash of silver in Rashid’s hand.

“Stride, I’ve been replaying that moment over and over in my head. Everything happened so fast. Rain was pouring down. The lightning came and went like a flashbulb. I’m telling you, I saw a gun . I saw Rashid raising his arm, pointing toward Officer Kenzie. If you asked me to swear on a stack of Bibles, I’d do it. Except I’ve talked to enough eyewitnesses to know they make mistakes about this shit all the time.”

“Yes, they do,” Stride said.

“So am I sure? No. Not anymore. And, yeah, I know, it’s a big deal, because without Rashid killing Kenzie, we don’t have any evidence of him being guilty of anything. Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. For the life of me, I don’t know. If he’s innocent, he’s already paid a horrible price for my mistake.”

She stared at Stride, as if he could give her answers, even though she knew he couldn’t. She felt as if she could unburden herself to him, as foolish as it was. He owed her nothing. His team didn’t like her. If he wanted to get her kicked off the investigation, he probably could. Even so, he had a way of commanding trust, and she typically didn’t trust anyone.

“I understand there’s a box on the FBI job application about being perfect,” Stride said. “Did you forget to check that?”

Gayle gave him a broken laugh. “I guess so.”

“Look, if I see what I think is a gun, I call it out,” Stride told her. “The alternative gets people killed. And, yeah, sometimes human beings make mistakes, and the results can be tragic. But if my best judgment tells me it’s a gun, I still call it out. If I’d been standing in your shoes, I would have done exactly the same thing.”

“Thanks.”

Stride’s phone rang. He backed up and took the call, and he didn’t say much as he listened. Gayle replayed the moment in the cemetery in her head. She knew she wouldn’t do anything else for a long time. She’d see it in her waking hours, and she’d see it in her dreams.

He hung up the phone and gestured to her. “Come on, Durkin, let’s go.”

“What’s up?” she asked.

“Someone just called 911,” Stride said. “Rashid was spotted in the Woodland neighborhood on Kolstad Avenue. We’re surrounding the area.”

Malik moved like a ghost through the backyards. In the darkness, he was mostly invisible. He wore a loose-fitting XXL black sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head, dark jeans, and black sneakers. Despite the night, he used sunglasses. He didn’t want anyone to see his face too clearly. If the police or the neighbors spotted him, they’d realize that the man on the run was not Khan Rashid. And then the plan would fail.

He stayed hidden, except when he crossed from one street to the next like a cat. The lots here were flat and big, dotted by tall trees. No one had fences. Without a light, he had to move slowly, ducking past detached garages and swing sets and pushing through wooded lots that were dense with weeds. Every now and then, a chained dog barked and growled, but no one came outside to investigate. Near one house, he had to wait for a man to finish a cigarette and return inside from the redwood deck before he could slip across the yard.

When Malik was ten blocks away, more than a mile from the house where Khan was hiding, he made the call. He had a pay-as-you-go phone, and he found a quiet place to dial 911. He was nervous, but nervousness was fine. Anyone making this call would be close to panic, and it was okay for the police to hear it in his voice.

“ I was just driving home from the Woodland neighborhood, and I saw a man run across the street right in front of my car. He looked right at me, and I recognized him. It was that man the police have been trying to find. The bomber? The man named Rashid? I was headed east on Mankato Street toward Woodland Avenue, and this man was running south on Kolstad Avenue toward Hartley Park. He was wearing a black hoodie and jeans. ”