Morning Run is a short story by Jack Rusher, published here Wednesday, February 02, 2005. It is part of Stories.
It’ll be easy, like a jog along the beach.
Dedicated to M.W. and L.V.She runs along the pristine Californian beach, breakfast settled and her first cup of coffee carrying her aloft as if on winged feet, while her iPod fills her ears with Gal Costa’s sweet Brazilian voice singing, “a noite eu so teu cavalo.” Slowly translating the lyric, using her remaining high-school Spanish to decode the Portugese, she comes up with “I am your horse in the night.” The words — mixed with the scent still clinging to her body — remind her of the the previous night, adding another layer of pleasure to her morning run.
In the distance she sees a dark man walking, slowly and erratically, along the edge of the water, clutching a paper-wrapped parcel to his chest. She wonders if he’s homeless, or crazy, or both, but she only adjusts her path a few steps inland to avoid him.
The man walks in circles, looking around in every direction, and then hides himself under a pier and partially unwraps the bundle. He pours something into his hand and casts it into the water, some kind of powder. A moment later he does it again.
A knot forms in her stomach and the obvious questions pop into her mind:
“What’s he doing?”
“Anthrax?”
“Something worse?”
She jogs past him, trying to look at him without looking like she’s looking. He’s a middle aged man who appears crazier and more dangerous up close, like a Middle Eastern version of the Unibomber. He’s mumbling something to himself, tearing at his clothing, and he seems to be weeping.
“This is it,” she thinks, “this is when the decision gets made that determines the outcome of the story.” She isn’t a heroic person and she’s scared of what might happen, but she’s determined to do what she can to protect herself and her nation, and there’s no time to make a report to the Department of Homeland Security.
Running back to him, she steels herself into what she thinks of as a military posture, as intimidating as she can be. He is so engrossed in his mission that he doesn’t notice her approaching him from behind. She grabs his shoulder, pulls him around and confronts him:
“What do you think you’re doing? What’s that you’re dumping into the water?”
Looking up through teary eyes, he answers.
“My son. He was a Marine.”