The Wrong Man

98

I ran with everything I had, but my knee wouldn’t permit my best effort, no matter how hard I tried. I cut across plazas and diagonally across streets but I couldn’t run two miles in ten minutes or so. I wasn’t going to make it by one P.M.

The Islamic New Year, a different day every year of our American calendar. How did I miss that? I didn’t even know that was celebrated. It was the perfect day for Randall Manning. Two birds-the government and a large gathering of Muslims-in one coordinated attack.

I hit Dayton, which was one-way east-the opposite direction from my route-and came up to an intersection where traffic was idling. A guy on a motorcycle was two cars back from the front of the intersection. I didn’t have the element of surprise, as he saw me approach, so I compensated with aggression. I barreled into him high, up at the head and shoulder area. I’d hoped to keep his bike upright but failed. The guy fell off the bike, but it toppled down on top of him, and me on top of it.

“I have to take this bike,” I said. “I’ll kill you if I have to.”

The guy was stunned a moment, not sure of what he was getting with me.

I righted the bike, hopped on, threw on the spare helmet for passengers, and sped away as he called out in protest. I drove forward and then did a U-turn and went onto the sidewalk and took off westbound.

My watch said it was four minutes to one. Surely they would wait until all of the Muslims had entered the mosque before they’d hit it. Why not maximize casualties?

But maybe my watch was slow, or theirs fast.

It had been a long time-college-since I’d driven a bike, and I surely didn’t know all the ins and outs of this one, but I knew how to go forward, and that was about all I needed to master. I sped through traffic, narrowly missed an oncoming car traveling northbound at an intersection, and silently prayed that I wasn’t too late.