Brian Freeman - Marathon

“You’re the best, man. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Yeah. Sure. I’ll go up to the street and make the call. There’s no signal down here. Plus, I want to make sure there aren’t any cops casting eyes on the tunnels. With any luck, we’ll have a car for you by dark.”

Wade turned on his heels, but Travis called after him.

“Hey, Wade?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry, man. I just wanted you to know that.”

Wade folded his arms across his scrawny chest and stared at the good-looking young kid. “Yeah? What do you have to be sorry about, Travis? Tell me.”

“You know. Everything. I mean, things didn’t work out the way I figured they would.”

“How did you think they were going to work out?” Wade asked.

“Not like this, that’s for sure.”

“Well, sit tight and don’t worry,” Wade said. “I’ll take care of it. Believe me, there’s not a problem I can’t fix.”

Wade wasn’t lying.

Travis had a problem, and he knew exactly how to fix it.

He retraced his steps through the tunnels and let himself out through the metal door to the steps below Third Avenue. He grabbed his phone from his pocket and dialed the number from the card in his pocket. He figured she’d answer right away, and she did.

“Sergeant Bei, it’s Wade Ralston,” he told her. “I need to talk to you about Travis Baker. Can you meet me right away?”

Stride knocked on Haq’s door. Haq answered immediately, but he didn’t look happy when he recognized Stride on the porch. Four days had aged Haq. His worry lines were deep, and his face was flushed. He checked the street, and then he waved Stride inside without a greeting.

Haq led them into the house’s front room. Heavy curtains kept the room dark. One wall was lined with bookshelves, and the books were mostly leather-bound, Arabic volumes. A brick fireplace took up the opposite wall. Haq sat down in an overstuffed easy chair and gestured for Stride to take the yellow sofa.

“What do you want, Jonathan?” he said finally. “I thought I made it clear we had no more business together.”

“You did.”

“So I guess this will be a short conversation.”

“Maybe so,” Stride said. “I wanted to share some news with you.”

Haq said nothing. His eyebrows arched impatiently.

“The original identification of Khan Rashid was incorrect,” Stride told him. “The man who said Khan bumped into him on Superior Street now admits that he was mistaken.”

“Of course, he was. I told you from the beginning that Khan wasn’t involved. You should have listened to me.”

“That’s true, but you weren’t being completely honest, were you? You left out the most important part.”

Haq’s face darkened. “What do you mean?”

“You knew that Rashid didn’t bump into Michael Malville on Superior Street. You knew for a fact that the identification was wrong, because the man on Superior Street with the backpack was you .”

Haq was silent, and Stride could see the man weighing what to say. Wondering whether Stride had any real proof. Debating whether to deny it or whether to acknowledge what they both knew. Finally, an arrogant smile crept onto Haq’s face.

“Okay, yes, I heard this rich white suburbanite talking about No Exceptions. Explaining to his boy about Americans being entitled to say whatever they want. Typical simpleminded nonsense, dressing up racism in the gown of Lady Liberty. I admit, it made me mad, so I ‘accidentally’ bumped into him. Hard.”

“You should have told me,” Stride said. “If you’d admitted it, we could have released a definitive statement that the identification on Twitter was an error. That Khan Rashid was not a suspect. Things might have turned out differently.”

“Are you saying this is my fault?” Haq asked.

“No, I’m not saying that, but it makes me wonder. Why didn’t you tell me it was you?”

Haq rubbed a hand thoughtfully along his beard. Their eyes met across the dark room. The realization of what Stride was saying dawned on him slowly. “You consider me a suspect in the bombing. Me .”

“You lied,” Stride said.

“I said nothing that was untrue.”

“Let’s not parse words. It was a lie of omission, Haq. It raises questions about what you were hiding.”

Haq stood up, clenching and unclenching his fists. “So I should have served myself up as a suspect? When I knew I did nothing wrong? Look at what happened to Khan! You’re saying I should have volunteered for the same treatment? The same vigilantes out for my blood? I bumped into a man on the street, Jonathan. That’s all. Nothing more. I was doing exactly what Khan was doing that day. Looking for Malik. Trying to keep the marathon safe.”

“Malville said your backpack felt heavy,” Stride pointed out.

“Because I’m a professor, and I had books in it, as I typically do.”

“Where is the backpack?” Stride asked. “Do you still have it?”

Haq laughed bitterly and shook his head. “You want me to show it to you? Is that what it’s come to between us? You actually need physical proof that I am not a terrorist?”

Stride said nothing. He waited.

Haq stared at him in disbelief and then left the room with quick, impatient steps. Seconds later, he returned, carrying a bulging navy-blue backpack that he threw at Stride’s feet. The zipper was half open. Coffee-stained textbooks pushed from inside. “There. Are you satisfied?”

“I’m sorry, Haq. I had to ask. I also need to know more about a meeting you had at the marathon building last Tuesday.”

“What about it?”

“What was the meeting?” Stride asked. “Who was involved?”

“A half dozen of us from the mosque met with marathon officials about the Muslim runners we’d recruited for the race. Why is that important?”

“Someone disconnected the cable for the marathon’s street camera that day,” Stride said. “It happened inside the marathon office.”

“And you think it was one of us.” Haq made it sound like a statement more than a question.

“Is that possible?”

“No.”

“You sound pretty sure,” Stride said.

“I am sure. We walked in as a group, we met in a conference room, and we left as a group. I think I would remember someone crawling around on the floor unhooking cables. Now, is that all? Because I’d like you to leave my house, Jonathan.”

“I have one more question,” Stride said, making no move to get up.

“What?”

“Is Khan Rashid really dead?”

Stride could see a crack in Haq’s composure. “You’re the one with the forensic experts. Talk to them, not me. What makes you think Khan might be alive, anyway?”

“You,” Stride replied.

“Me? I said nothing.”

“When you first called me about Khan, you said he was a good man. I believe in your judgment about people. If that’s who Khan is, then I can’t see him luring police officers to their deaths with a suicide vest.”

Haq’s chest swelled as he took a deep breath. “Well, even good men have their limits.”

“Enough to commit murder?” Stride asked.

“Maybe.”

Stride stood up and went to Haq. They were eye to eye. “Tell me the truth. Was it Malik Noon in the shed?”

He saw a battle going on in Haq’s face. His friend had begun to see him as an enemy, and you didn’t extend a hand of support to your enemies. Even so, they had a history together.

Without a word, Haq slowly nodded.

“Khan’s alive?” Stride asked.

Another silent nod.

“Is he on the run? Where is he? I want to protect him.”

Haq’s mouth made a grim line. “He was on the run, but he came back. He came to see me.”