Brian Freeman - Marathon

That brought a smile. “Oh, yes.”

“I imagine they are your life,” Khan said.

“They are. And not long ago, I came very close to losing them. So for me to be responsible for what happened to you is more than I can bear—”

Khan stopped him again. “You’ve apologized, Mr. Malville. You don’t need to do so again. I was wrong, though. I do want something from you.”

“What is it? Anything.”

“I’d like to tell you about Ahdia and Pak,” Khan said. “I’d like you to know who they were. All of you. Your wife and son, too. Would you do that for me?”

Malville drew himself up to his full height. He was a big man, and he had his voice back. “It would be an honor. Thank you.”

Khan waved at the people in the car to join them. He saw them both getting out. Alison Malville was smiling, her pretty eyes rimmed in red. Evan’s eyes were drawn to the soccer ball in the front yard. Children were all the same.

“Have you ever been to a Muslim home, Mr. Malville?” he asked.

“No,” the man replied. “We haven’t.”

“Then come inside,” Khan said.

“How’s the truck driver?” Cat whispered into Stride’s ear. The noise of the crowd in the brewery almost drowned out her question.

“Don’t worry, he’s out of the hospital and doing fine,” Stride told her.

“Wow, that’s great.”

“Yes, it is.”

Stride hoisted a glass of Derailed Ale in his hand and stood up at the table, where he was surrounded by Serena, Cat, Maggie, Troy Grange, and Gayle Durkin. He used a loud voice to make sure they could all hear him. “Let it be known, to all of you who think I am incapable of change, that we are here at Thirsty Pagan in Superior and not at Sammy’s. I did not protest. I did not complain. I am willing to acknowledge that there are other pizzas in the world.”

Durkin giggled. They were on their third pitcher of beer and most of the way through their second deep-dish pizza. “Yes, but that’s only because he had Sammy’s delivered to the DECC every single day we were there.”

“I didn’t hear complaints,” Stride said.

“No, no, no complaints.”

They all laughed. It felt good to laugh. One week after the marathon tragedies, the city was slowly making its way back to normal. It was a new weekend, a new summer festival, a new crowd of tourists. Dawn Basch was gone; she’d cancelled her free-speech symposium after hundreds of Duluthians sent back their tickets. The FBI was out of the DECC, and Gayle Durkin was spending the weekend with her parents and then returning home to the Twin Cities. The evening at Thirsty Pagan Brewing was her going-away party.

“You guys are great,” Durkin told them. “Really. Duluth is lucky to have you.”

“You’re not so bad, either, Gherkin,” Maggie replied, laughing so hard that she snorted and nearly slipped off her chair. She’d been anesthetizing her shoulder with beer, which seemed to help.

“You realize that’s going to be my nickname for the rest of my career, don’t you?” Durkin asked.

“You’re welcome,” Maggie replied. “I’m very proud.”

“Anyway, it means a lot to me to have a night like this after a long week, but I need to go home now,” Durkin continued. “I just wanted to say thanks and tell you how much everyone at the FBI appreciates all your help. Especially me.”

“Well, don’t be a stranger,” Stride said. “Once a Duluthian, always a Duluthian, Gayle.”

“I’ll remember that.” Durkin’s eyes met Stride’s, and a silent message passed them. “Really, thanks,” she said. “For everything.”

Stride lifted his glass in a toast.

“We’d better go, too,” Maggie announced, swallowing the last of her ale and dragging Troy out of his chair. “We’ve got an early day tomorrow. Troy and I are helping Shelly Baker get home from the hospital. She’s got a lot of physical therapy ahead of her, but her attitude is pretty good. We’re working with the city to locate a ground-level, handicapped-accessible apartment for her, but for now, we’ll make sure she’s okay.”

“Do you need more hands on deck?” Stride asked.

“At some point, yeah, but we’ll be okay tomorrow.”

“If you need us, call,” Serena said.

There were hugs and goodbyes, and then Durkin, Maggie, and Troy were gone, and the three of them had the table to themselves. Cat eyed the beer, and Stride eyed her back with a look that said No . Serena took another bite of pizza. On the small stage in the crowded room, a folk guitarist began to play, and a college girl with purple hair crooned a mellow cover of an Alison Krauss song. The conversation died as the people began to listen. Soon the only sound was the girl’s voice and the clink of glasses being filled at the bar.

“I’m going to go, too,” Cat murmured. “Assuming the two of you can be trusted alone.”

“Where are you off to?” Stride asked the girl. “Got a date?”

“No, I called Drew and Krista Olson to see if I could come over,” Cat replied, hooding her eyes so she didn’t have to look at them. “You know, to see how Michael was doing. And whether I could help at all.”

Stride and Serena both smiled.

“I think they’ll like that,” Serena told her. “So will Michael.”

“Yeah. That’s what Drew said.”

“Do you want us to go with you?” Stride asked.

“No, that’s okay. I can do it myself.”

As she left, Cat looked like seventeen going on thirty. Full of mistakes but full of promise. Stride’s gaze followed the girl until she was gone, and so did Serena’s. That was how it was when you were parents.

Serena pulled her chair close to him and sank back into his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her and held her hand. The singer on stage was good. It was just her and the guitar and the Alison Krauss song, “When You Say Nothing at All,” one of Stride’s favorites. He felt the easy buzz of the ale in his head, and he loved the smell of Serena’s hair near his face.

Darkness was everywhere but not here. Not tonight. The darkness would still be there in the morning, and so would the grief, but he didn’t have to go looking for it.

“So, are you going to the run the marathon next year?” he whispered into her ear.

“You bet I am. Everyone is going to run next year.”

“Biggest and best ever,” Stride said.

“Exactly.”

“You know, we haven’t spent much time together lately,” he pointed out.

“You’re right. We haven’t.”

“Sorry. We’ll change that.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not about measuring time, Jonny,” Serena replied. “It’s about this moment right now. That’s all that matters.”

She was right. This moment was perfect, regardless of what had come before and what would come tomorrow. He wouldn’t change a thing. The evening. The music. The food and drink. The people in his life. The good and the bad, exactly the way they were supposed to be. He drank his ale, held his wife, listened to the song, and said nothing at all.

In April 2013, the world witnessed the horror of the bombing at the Boston Marathon. That tragic moment and its aftermath had a special meaning for people in Duluth, because the annual marathon there is one of the great traditions of the city. As a result, this was an extremely difficult and personal book to write, because of the intensity of the emotions involved, both on the page and in real life. I’m grateful for the help of the many people who offered their counsel and insight.

Former Duluth Police Chief Scott Lyons was extremely helpful in discussing police strategy in major crises and working relationships with the FBI. Darlene Marshall of the Duluth Greater Downtown Council and Chuck Frederick of the Duluth News Tribune helped arrange a tour of the downtown subbasements (and were brave enough to accompany me and Marcia down there). Kevin Schnorr from Oneida Commercial Real Estate made a great tour guide.