Brian Freeman - Marathon

“Wade,” he murmured. “Hey, man, it’s me. Call me.”

Travis sipped his coffee. The caffeine added to his jittery nerves. As he sat there, the reality of his situation sank into his brain. When the police found him, they’d arrest him. They’d put him on trial, and the jurors would stare into his face with their hard eyes and say, “Guilty.” Travis Baker, murderer. They’d put him in a cell, and that was it. End of story.

The thought of being stuck in prison for the rest of his life overwhelmed him. He squeezed his coffee cup so hard that he crushed it, and coffee squirted up like a fountain over his clothes and the table. It burned his hand. Now everyone was looking at him. One of the café employees came running over with a towel. She looked straight at his face. She’d remember him. When she saw his photo on the news, she’d say, That’s him. That’s the guy who spilled his coffee .

“Are you okay, sir?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“Let me get you a refill.”

“No, it’s okay, never mind.”

Travis got up, toppling his chair. He dried his hand on his T-shirt. He shoved his way through the tables and back to the skywalk without looking behind him. He felt a flush on his face.

He couldn’t stay there.

Travis hurried through the food court and was about to cross over Superior Street when he spotted a security guard heading toward him. He reversed direction and exited the building into an alley behind the hotel. He waited outside, making sure that the guard wasn’t following him, and then he jogged across Third Avenue. Already, he felt unsafe. The intense sunlight was making him sweat. Cars were parked up and down the block. When he took a quick glance down the hill, he saw the perfect place to lie low.

Half a block away, on the sidewalk, was a small iron railing bolted to a building wall, with a gate that gave access to a set of dirty concrete steps leading into the subbasement of the building. He and Wade probably spent more time underneath that building than anyone else in the city. They’d waste hours there, alone, playing music and cards, without a soul disturbing them, other than the occasional rat.

Travis hurried down the street. No one looked his way. He swung open the gate and hugged the brick foundation wall to the bottom of the steps. The stairwell was barely wide enough to let him through. Where the steps ended, he found a locked metal door. Moisture leached from underneath. Garbage had been tossed from the sidewalk overhead, and Travis kicked it aside with his boot. He yanked keys from his pocket, and then he took out his phone, too. He backed up out of view from anyone on the sidewalk above him and dialed Wade’s number again.

This time, Wade answered on the first ring.

“What do you want, Travis? Why are you calling me?”

“I got trouble, man. I need help. The police are on to me. They know I did it.”

He heard a loud sigh from Wade. “Yeah, that cop came by the hospital and talked to me and Shelly. She was asking lots of questions about you. Do they have any proof?”

“They found the van. I tried to clean it, like you said, but they’ll figure it out. They know it’s me, man.”

Wade was quiet for a long time. “What do you want from me, Travis?”

“I need help. I need to get out of town.”

“You’re going to run?”

“What choice do I have, man? They catch me, they put me away — you know that. I need a car and some money. Soon as I’m settled, I’ll pay you back.”

Wade laughed. “Sure. That’ll happen.”

“I mean it. And, hey, Wade, I probably need a gun, too. You got one I can take with me?”

“I’m always carrying, Travis, you know that. Where are you planning on going, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere south.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m heading into the subbasement at the building on Third. You know, the one where we hang out sometimes? I figure it’s safe there for a while.”

“Yeah, I know the one,” Wade said. “Okay, hang tight, Travis. Get out of sight, and stay out of sight. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Stride found Michael and Alison Malville waiting for him in the interview room at police headquarters.

He remembered both of them from the investigation two years earlier. Since then, Alison had ditched her long red hair for a short, blond, soccer-mom style, and she was dressed down in a way she never would have been when she lived in her McMansion in Duluth. Michael hadn’t changed as much as his wife. He still looked tense and angry. He was a poster child for the fact that having all the money in the world didn’t make you happy.

Stride sat down across from them. He noticed that Alison reached out and took her husband’s hand. It was good to see them still together. Back then, he hadn’t been certain that their marriage would survive.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Malville,” Stride said. “What can I do for you?”

Alison looked at her husband, but Michael stared down at the table. His face and his bald head were beet red. “We’re very sorry about the deaths of your police officers,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Can you tell us if Khan Rashid was the man who blew himself up last night?” Alison asked.

Stride didn’t answer immediately. He tried to anticipate where this conversation was going, but all he saw was a cauldron of emotion bubbling under Michael Malville’s skin, even when the man didn’t say a word.

“The FBI will be conducting DNA tests to be sure,” Stride replied. “Until then, we’re not confirming the identification.”

Michael spoke for the first time. “Do you know if Rashid was guilty? Was he the one who bombed the marathon?”

“We’re not sure yet. Why do you want to know?”

Alison looked at Michael, and Michael looked at Alison. They waited for each other. Finally, Alison said under her breath, “It doesn’t change anything, Michael. Even if Rashid really is guilty, they need to know the truth.”

Michael scowled. He didn’t want to talk. It was obvious that Alison had dragged him here without his consent.

“My husband has something to tell you,” Alison announced, not giving him a choice.

“And what’s that, Mr. Malville?” Stride asked.

Michael stared back without blinking, as if he didn’t want to give Stride the satisfaction of not looking into his eyes. “I made a mistake,” he announced.

“A mistake?”

“When I saw the photograph of Khan Rashid in Canal Park, I was certain that he was the man who bumped into me on Superior Street. The man with the backpack. You have to understand, Lieutenant, I was sure he was the guy. I didn’t have the slightest doubt.”

“Now you’re not sure?” Stride asked.

“Now I realize I was wrong. It wasn’t him.”

Stride wasn’t surprised at all. Eyewitnesses got it wrong all the time. Even so, he had to bury his anger at the man in front of him, because this eyewitness mistake had rippled into a violent disaster. Dennis Kenzie was dead. Ahdia Rashid was dead. Pak Rashid was dead. So were two more police officers, along with a man they assumed was Khan Rashid.

All those deaths had begun with Michael Malville’s tweet.

And Michael Malville was wrong.

“Didn’t you tell Sergeant Bei that you were one hundred percent certain that the man you saw with the backpack was Khan Rashid?” Stride asked.

“Yes, I did, but—”

“And now you’re one hundred percent certain that it was not him,” Stride said.

“That’s right.”

Stride allowed a long stretch of silence to linger in the room. “Okay. Well, thank you for coming in, Mr. Malville. I’ll have an officer show you both out.”