Mary Sophie Filicetti is a teacher of the visually impaired who once spent time writing stories in the myriad coffee shops around DC, and now writes at home. Her fiction appears in AEL press, The Phoenix, Every Day Fiction, Nightingale and Sparrow, The Magnolia Review, and Funny Pearls, among others.

Tweeting @marysfilicetti

Fringe Elements

Mariela checks her watch, clears her mind and takes off on this final training run. The sun hangs above the horizon, full and red in a hazy, cloudless sky. A long patch of pavement is visible before twisting out of sight, its dark surface radiating the heat of the day. The miles await—to be attacked, conquered, one by one.

The other long haul runners began and finished hours ago, before temperatures reached their apex, rather than in the waning afternoon hours. She’s encountered small packs of marathon trainees on weekend mornings talking and pacing, sharing what for her is a solitary experience.

Snippets of Nikki’s warnings intrude: “You really shouldn’t run with headphones in. You need to be on guard—what if you’re in an accident…what if a mugger takes advantage, surprises you?”

‘What if…what if.’ There’s no room for ‘what ifs’ in Mariela’s mind, only her footfalls seeking a rhythm, her body responding to the work imposed on muscles and lungs. Everything is boiled down to its essence: playlist piping through her iPod, water system strapped to her back, putting one foot in front of the other.

“Would you at least take your phone—turn it off if you must?” she’d asked, shifting her approach. “In case you’re overcome by heat?” Nikki’s imagination leans toward worst-case scenario, the price Mariela pays for living with a cop.

After surrendering her Sunday morning to unscheduled meetings, the rest of the day belongs to her. The job is always lurking in the background, demanding attention with sharp, insistent pings. Decoupling from her devices frees up a part of her brain needed for a clear perspective. She refuses to be sucked back in, to give up the chance for peace simply because she’s a woman running alone.

Mariela drives her concentration back to the trail, her focus on pacing. There is a destination, twenty miles between start and finish, the process that is the point of training. Everything else is negative space.

A steady ticking of the kitchen clock echoes in the apartment, the only other sound the clicking of keys on Nikki’s laptop. Mariela’s phone sits beside hers on the kitchen counter, useless here while she runs ‘off the grid.’ More like ‘while she causes her partner worry.’

She’s convinced Mariela to keep private the fact she runs without the device. “You don’t need to explain to colleagues why you’re out of reach.”

Nikki’s phone vibrates, the precinct calling. Her instincts are to pick up regardless of whether she’s on call.

“Hey, it’s John. Are you watching the news?”

“No—local or national?” she asks, picking up on the tone in his voice, scanning for the remote.

“Local,” he says, then after a pause, “Is Mariela at home today? She’s not at the office, right?” John is one of the few other cops the couple socializes with outside of work. Her reticence isn’t about how her coworkers or her boss will react, it’s more an impulse to set boundaries between home and work, to protect her relationship from the grim realities of the job.

“She came back from the office a few hours ago, but she’s out right now.” John’s questions, threaded together, unnerve her. She finds the remote and turns to a local news channel, now on commercial break. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“There was a call-out to the Wilson building—shots fired. It’s looking like an employee of Helmer’s. That’s all I know.”

The news resumes with a bright-eyed reporter in the field, lights flashing in the background. Scrolling across the bottom of the screen is a special alert: ‘Executive at law firm shot and killed, suspect at large.’

Nikki takes a breath and leans into the probability the attack is personal and not work-related. With all of the confusion at the scene, people running for cover, the motive for the attack is likely unclear at this point. She reminds herself that Helmer’s is a large firm. Mariela might not even know the perpetrator.

The sun begins its descent while the heat lingers; Mariela is exposed without cover of a tree canopy. A fine layer of dust drifts up from the bare dirt beside the trail and adheres to her sweaty limbs. As the numbers on the mile markers increase, signs of civilization—houses, side streets—grow farther apart. A few bikers still on the trail call out before passing from behind. A single rider approaches from the opposite direction, hugging the yellow line, whipping by so close to her that the gust of wind lifts her hair and leaves behind the acrid odor of the man’s sweat. He’s wearing street clothes—cargo shorts, a T-shirt dark with sweat, baseball cap. Along with the missing helmet, the lack of spandex separates him from the serious bikers.

She holds back an angry retort, picturing Nikki’s expression if she were to cause an altercation.

“Do you have the victim ID yet?” Nikki asks.

“Just came in—Brianna King, Director of HR,” John says, rustling papers. “There were only a few employees at the office at the time of the shooting. They’re shaken up, but agree the assault was targeted.”

She keeps her voice level. “I know—knew Brianna. She was Mariela’s direct supervisor, the head of the new Diversity and Equity group. Any details on a motive?”

“The team is still debriefing. Is Mariela back—can we speak with her?"

“She’s on a run without her phone; I can’t reach her right now.”

“We haven’t determined yet if this is a domestic incident,” he says, softening his tone, aware of her concerns. “Do you want me to check back with you when I learn more?”

“No—I don’t want to wait around. Even if Mariela isn’t involved directly, this is hitting too close to home,” Nikki says. “Can you clear me for the scene at the Wilson? Tell them I have useful information?”

“I’ll do you one better,” John says. “I’ll meet you there.”

Whatever John’s take on the situation, she knows he’ll back her up. She’s placing a note on the counter—Emergency at Helmer’s. Please stay here and call me ASAP—when Mariela’s phone buzzes with a text. The banner shows 10 more from the same unknown number. She punches in the passcode—they have an ‘open phone’ relationship—and scrolls through a string of formless accusations…go ahead with those secret meetings...we’re wise to your plans …we’ll protect our freedoms

And the last one…you aren’t going to get far

The sun dips below the horizon, twilight emerging in layers of blue descending upon the last orange ribbons. Mariela’s playlist shifts in mood, minor keys for the later section of the run. Triumph and Red Rider offer a distraction from the warnings of her subconscious: slow down, quit this madness. Her thoughts revert to work.

She’s kept the drama at Helmer from Nikki, the small element of dissent against her new role in the company. When her supervisor tapped her to create a program on diversity and inclusion, she’d questioned whether the firm would commit sufficient resources and staffing. Brianna clearly read the signs well; the CEO had mandated the year-long training for all employees.

She’d anticipated a certain amount of pushback from staff: “Pointless waste of money…PC nonsense…a diversion from our core mission,” the mission being to make money, she assumes. A few detractors have been bold—posting ugly responses online, trolling the department with emails and anonymous texts. If Nikki knew, she’d want to investigate or at the very least urge Mariela to lodge a complaint.

A flash of green ahead flags her attention: Talahi Road, the first street she’s seen in miles. The sign is a red herring; the one marking the end of her route waits another mile farther down.

The sound of rushing wind alerts her to a bike zipping up from behind. She hops right, but the rider almost clips her side. As he passes, she spots the same T-shirt and cargo shorts from earlier. It’s possible he’s lost, or backtracking toward home, but his reappearance bothers her. The two close calls feel intentional, as if he wanted her to notice him.  

She’s coming around the last corner, intent on the sign signaling the run’s end point, when her foot catches on a bike wheel sticking out across the side of the trail. Mariela pulls up short, attempting to halt her forward motion, her muscles complaining against the sudden reversal. She throws her hands in a defensive pose; her right hand catches the retaining wall and blocks a fall.

The biker in the cargo shorts is sprawled on the grass, shirt riding up to expose a soft middle, legs splayed out. Lunatic—serves him right after twice nearly hitting her. She wipes grit from her hands and assesses her status, sore but unharmed other than scrapes where her hand met stone.

“Hey, sorry about that,” he says. “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine. You?” she asks, since he hasn’t moved.

“Twisted my ankle.” He makes a show of rubbing it. When he pulls off his sunglasses, unneeded with the sun down, Mariela steps back unintentionally. At the same time he seems to recognize her, though she’s not the one covered up in a hat and shades. “Mariela?” He breaks into a grin, “Well, this is a break!”

She doesn’t return the gesture. “Nathan—I didn’t know you rode the trail.”

“Just a weekend warrior,” he says with a self-deprecating head shake.

Nikki and John meet at the glass doors to Helmer’s. Two officers are standing guard; the inner office is swarming with crime scene techs and photographers. They badge their way in to the foyer and wait for the detective on call. She’s relieved when she sees Raffialo, someone receptive to input from the patrol officers.

“The alleged gunman is a current employee—Nathan Harris,” Raffialo says. “He’s been called out before for inappropriate comments, which amped up when the firm initiated a new cultural proficiency training. The Human Resources department met this morning to discuss aggressive reactions to the program, and his name came up front and center. This afternoon he turned up out of the blue, heading right for HR, where he pulled his weapon.”

“Did he talk to anyone, make verbal threats?”

Raffialo refers to his notes. “The director’s assistant heard him spouting off about being on guard, not being replaced. We’re tracking whether he was affiliated with local fringe groups.”

“Any leads on where he’s gone?”

He shakes his head. “We’ve finished searching the building. We’re fanning out through the surrounding area and his home address, but nothing yet.”

“Do you have a phone I can use?” Nathan asks Mariela. “I don’t have mine.”

She looks at the bulging lap belt he’s carrying, almost asks him to check again, then makes a show of patting her shorts, “Not on me,” she says, stopping short of saying it’s at home. “I’m sure someone will be by shortly with a phone.” The chances are slim with the light fading; the trail feels deserted.

“Could I trouble you then to help me hobble off the path?” He pantomimes slinging his arm around her shoulders. Without the glasses his eyes look glazed and red-rimmed, like maybe he’s high.

“You’ll need to return the bike anyway—here, why don’t I get it back up again?” The company logo identifies the bike as a rental, one she uses for occasional bike commuting; there are docking stations near both her house and the Wilson Building. She keeps the bike between the two of them, tests out the wheels. “Looks like it’s still functional, nothing wrong that I can see. You can lean on it as we walk.”

Nathan frowns, but pulls himself up next to the bike, leaning on his side of the handlebars while she counterbalances. They set off slowly, his limp pronounced.

“Guess my name is familiar after coming across that big desk of yours a time or two?” he asks with a sideways look at her, the edge of a smile still lingering.

He must realize his employment status is more than a little precarious, certainly nothing to take lightly. Even before his vocal opposition to the training, Brianna had begun filing paperwork for his dismissal.

“I don’t think this is an appropriate place for that conversation.”

“Not appropriate…” he says, drawing out the word. “Is it appropriate to put someone’s job on the line because of a few harmless comments they’ve made? Don’t you think maybe with all of this sharing you’ve asked for, everyone’s just a little too sensitive?”

Mariela ignores the remarks, searches for an exit. There’s a 7-Eleven not far off the trail, past a small, wooded patch ahead. She’s passed by after multiple runs, but can’t decide if she’s misremembering an old-fashioned phone booth outside. For the first time she regrets her missing phone; she could have texted Nikki a few miles back to meet her at Whole Foods, have a drink, ride home together. Instead, she’s helping Nathan, fighting the impulse to take off and leave him.

“Look, I’m meeting my partner up ahead, but we can stop at the 7-Eleven around the bend—I’m sure they have a phone.”

Nathan continues on as if she hadn’t spoken. “You people say you want to listen to everyone, but if they don’t believe the same thing you do, you punish them for expressing their opinions. You use all these fancy phrases—the impact of bias—when you’re just looking to blame someone for your troubles.”

She can feel his eyes on her. Up close, the smell of his sweat stings her nostrils, an almost feral scent. Did one of his buddies at the office tip him off about the meeting this morning? She’d begged off early, mentioning her training run; anyone who’d been at the office might have known. She flips through the names and faces of her colleagues from the meeting, trying to connect them with Nathan.

“I’m not going to discuss this with you here,” she says, her voice clipped. “If you have a complaint, you can lodge it with Brianna tomorrow at the office.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he says.  

She doesn’t like the tone of his voice. If she can get past the section of woods, she’ll have a chance to shed herself of the man. She’s not certain it will be that simple.

Nikki takes the parking lot at a run, choosing her own car. John follows behind without invitation. She nods assent and he climbs into the passenger seat, barely closing the door before she takes off.

“Go through the stats again for me,” she says.

“Nathan Harris, white male, late forties, six foot tall, brown hair, husky build, seen at Helmer’s wearing a dark T-shirt and cargo shorts. He’s worked at Helmer’s the past two years as a legal clerk. A few disciplinary actions; HR had documented complaints from coworkers, mainly women, and recently called him before the managing partners. They’d put him on notice.”

Even if the staff didn’t suspect violence, they were aware of animosity directed at the department. She tamps down frustration with Mariela for keeping this issue so close to her chest; she knows getting emotional won’t help here. It’s not like the couple lacks time to connect—they talk endlessly on their evening walks, in bed on Sunday mornings after she makes coffee and Mariela runs out to pick up pastries.

“Ok, what’s your plan?” John asks, one hand gripping the dash as Nikki takes a curve.

“I’m going to cut through the back parking lot and head for the Whole Foods a few streets down on Maple—it’s right off the trail—then work backwards. Mariela should be close to finishing her run; hopefully I can head her off.”

“I’ll phone this in to the precinct, just in case we need back up.”

Nathan is showing signs of agitation, and Mariela doesn’t like the way he’s keeping a tight rein on his lap belt, repositioning when it shifts away from his free hand. She’s going to find a way to enlist a bystander, get away from him even if she’s misreading his state of mind.

Mariela catches a flicker of movement at the edge of the woods. Two people slip behind some ground cover; the flicker of recognition which strikes might only be her imagination. She doesn’t want to rely on the possibility that it’s Nikki, coming for her. Either way, she’ll make use of the opportunity.

Just a few more feet ahead. The moment they pass under the first overhanging trees, she calls out abruptly. The reaction is immediate, like flushing out prey—the two figures explode from the bushes. She propels herself off the heavy bike using all her force, attempting to topple Nathan but he’s released his grip on the handlebars. One of his hands flicks out to grab her, but she pushes away and the bike falls, tangling his limbs.

“Police! Hands where I can see them!”

Nikki’s voice brings her attention up; her partner nods toward the trail’s sides. Her legs resist the dive for the woods, muscles seizing up from the earlier strain. She catches herself before she trips over a tree root and throws the momentum into a roll, flattening out on the ground.

Nikki is a blur, streaking towards her with John on the other side going for Nathan, knocking his hand away from the lap belt. With a bound, John is on top of Nathan, grunting and struggling for supremacy.

“Stay down and call 911,” Nikki says, flipping her phone over before sprinting across to help John, who is straddling Nathan. They each grab an arm to secure him, their motions efficient and coordinated. Spilling from Nathan’s lap belt onto the dark pavement are a set of keys, a phone and a small pistol, the metal glinting from the light of a nearby streetlight. John cuffs him and moves him off the trail, where he waits, muttering, his complaints ignored.

The sound of sirens builds as a series of vehicles, one after another, careens into the nearby parking lot. Nikki trots over to tell them to stand down the urgency while waving over the ambulance crew. John pulls Nathan to his feet, grabs an arm, and steers him to another patrol officer.

Two EMTs, a man and a woman—their height and bulky size reassuring—direct their attention to Mariela. They’re all business, insisting on checking her from head to toe, testing her vitals, wrapping her in a metallic blanket, the same one given after a marathon. She’s shivering despite the heat, teeth chattering with tension, but assures them she’ll be fine later with a bowl-sized goblet of wine. The attempt at humor falls flat; they shake their heads, but let her go.

She pulls the blanket tighter. “What’s going on?” she asks. Nikki pulls her aside, her expression the one she wears when breaking news of an unexpected death. She makes the connection then. “He started at Helmer’s didn’t he? Is that how you knew to come find me?”

“Let’s talk about it at home.” She clasps Mariela in a one-armed hug and lifts an inquiring eyebrow to John, who nods; he’ll call later if they need her at the station. They pass Nathan as he’s pressed down into a squad car, raving, swearing he’ll survive the final solution.

“The real solution is something he’ll never know, never have,” Nikki says quietly, just between the two of them. She pivots her partner from the scene and walks away to spend what remains of the evening together.