Brian Freeman - Marathon

Michael leaned across the table. “That’s it? Don’t you want to know who I really saw?”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?” he demanded. Alison frowned and shot him a look that said: Calm down .

Stride ran both hands back through his wavy hair. His face was stone. “Mr. Malville, right now, your memories of what you saw or didn’t see have no credibility with me. We’re done listening to you, and my advice is that you keep any information you think you have off social media, too.”

He stood up to leave, but Alison interrupted him. Beside her, Michael stewed with resentment.

“Lieutenant, wait,” she said. “We are both very sorry. I know that doesn’t change a thing, but it’s true. Michael won’t give you any excuses, but I can tell you he simply made an honest mistake. He didn’t post that photograph with malice toward anyone.”

“You’re right, Mrs. Malville. That doesn’t change a thing.”

“At least look ,” Michael interjected. He pushed a white piece of paper across the desk. “I’m not going to pretend I didn’t screw up. I was wrong about Rashid, and I have to live with that. The reason I made a mistake is that I never saw the real man in any of the photographs online. If I had, I would have identified him immediately. I didn’t see him until today, and as soon as I did, I recognized him.”

Stride moved the piece of paper closer with one of his fingers. “Where did you see him?”

“On television. He was being interviewed. I did a quick screen capture from the CNN website and printed it. This is the guy, Lieutenant. He had a backpack, and he bumped into me on Superior Street. I know what I said before, but this time, I’m right.”

Stride took the page into his hands and turned it over. The photo taken from the video feed was blurry, but he knew the face.

It was Haq Al-Masri.

Stride found Serena waiting for him in his office. She handed him a can of Coke. “You don’t like the Malvilles very much, do you?” she asked.

He sat down next to her and took a swig of pop from the can. “Not really. In fairness, they have plenty of reasons not to like me, either. The Spitting Devil case almost broke up their marriage.”

He was conscious of the silence from Serena, and he knew what it was about. She hadn’t been a part of that investigation, and that was because it had happened during the winter months two years earlier when she and Stride were split up. Those were the short-lived days when he and Maggie had been sleeping together, before they both realized they’d made a terrible mistake. The case wasn’t a bad memory just for the Malvilles. It was his own dark time, too.

“Anyway,” he murmured. The past was the past, and he couldn’t change it.

He put the photograph of Haq Al-Masri on the desk between them.

“Do you think Malville is right this time?” Serena asked. “Was Haq at the marathon?”

“I don’t have much confidence in anything Malville says at this point. His memories are too colored by everything that’s happened. I do believe that he was wrong about Khan Rashid. Malville and Dawn Basch destroyed that man’s life, and he didn’t do a damn thing.”

“What about last night in Woodland?” Serena asked.

“That’s a good question. Durkin thinks Khan was pushed so far that he finally pushed back. The working theory among the FBI is that Malik Noon gave Rashid a suicide vest.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No.”

“What’s another explanation?”

“That it wasn’t Rashid who died last night,” Stride said. “The voice on the phone call sounded familiar to me. I think it was Rashid calling to warn me. Plus, the original 911 call that identified Rashid in the Woodland neighborhood came from a burner phone. It was untraceable. Somebody wanted us to walk into that situation thinking Khan Rashid was the man in the shed.”

“Why?” Serena asked.

“If we were convinced Khan was dead, we’d stop looking for him. He’d be able to escape.”

“Have you told Maloney or Durkin about your suspicions?”

“I haven’t. I don’t have any proof; it’s just a hunch. We’ll wait to see what the DNA results tell us.” He hesitated, and then he added, “If Rashid is alive, I’m not sure it’s a bad thing if he gets away. He’s a victim, along with all the others.”

Serena leaned back in the chair. She had a strange look on her face. “Every now and then, Jonny, you surprise me.”

“What, you think I’m getting soft?”

“Maybe a little.”

He smiled. “Sometimes you have to know who to arrest and who to let run.”

“What about Haq? Are you going to talk to him?”

“Because of what Michael Malville said? No. I know Haq. He’s not the marathon bomber.”

Serena frowned. “It’s not that I don’t trust your instincts, Jonny...”

“But?”

“But I really think you should talk to Haq.”

His brow furrowed. “Because he bumped into Malville at the marathon? Because he had a backpack with him? You’re the one who’s been telling me the bomb was probably in place for days before the race.”

“Yes, but there’s something else,” Serena said.

“What?”

“I’m still working my way through the parade of people who were in the marathon offices on that Tuesday,” she told him. “The list includes representatives from the local mosque who were making arrangements for a special group of Muslim runners. Haq was one of them, Jonny. He was at the marathon office on the day the street camera was disabled.”

Haq ran hard. His anger propelled him. He went out the back of his house to avoid reporters who might be waiting for him, and he made his way to College Street, where he headed west along the border of the university. He got into a rhythm. The air was heavy, and his body poured sweat, but when exhaustion tempted him to slow down, he ran faster.

He followed College Street to the end and turned south. His route was downhill, with the wind at his back, and he raced along a mostly wooded route until he reached Skyline Parkway. There he turned back uphill, on a scenic drive high above the lake, where the steepness made each step a battle. He barely noticed the view. He was too consumed with his own thoughts.

Skyline Parkway twisted and climbed until he reached the bridge over the waterfall at Chester Creek. He’d met Stride in the park there on Saturday night. Four days seemed like a lifetime ago, when the violence and bitterness in the city was just beginning.

He climbed one last hill, and he was back on the wide lawns near the Aftenro Home, a senior center only a block from the UMD campus. He bent over, his hands on his thighs, and let his breathing come back to normal. He unhooked a water bottle from his belt and squirted warm water into his mouth. It was cooler in the shade of the firs, and he slid down the trunk of a nearby tree and sat with his eyes closed. He undid the laces of his sneakers. He may have slept for a while.

“ Salaam Alaikum , Haq.”

His eyes shot open as heard the quiet voice above him. He squinted into the shadows and saw a man standing among the evergreen branches. He didn’t recognize him at first, but when he did, he scrambled to his feet.

“ Khan !”

They embraced, but it was a sad embrace. As they stood with linked arms, Haq could see that Khan was a different man. It wasn’t just that he’d changed his physical appearance. There had always been an inner peace to Khan, but that was gone. Hardness had taken its place.

“They said you were dead,” Haq told him, “but I didn’t believe it.”

“I’m not dead, but I don’t know if I’m alive, either. My heart still beats — that’s all I can say.”