Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel (22 page)

Sixty-eight

Mr. Harrington had refused to eat all day and started crying hysterically just moments after Kenny strapped him to his bed for the night. There was no consoling him, so Kenny escaped to the family-room sofa and covered his head with pillows. He couldn’t bear the sound of his father suffering and wanted to hide his own cries of pain from the world. The part-time caretaker was scheduled to start after the Fourth of July holiday, but that couldn’t come soon enough.

When the old man finally drifted off to sleep, Kenny poured his nightly cognac and settled down in front of his computers. A secure message was waiting for him.

TO: Hobbit

FROM: OrcSlayer

MESSAGE: got info on your target … it’s juicy

Kenny leaned back in his chair and sipped his drink.

Hobbit: spill it

OrcSlayer: had to go off-net for some of it

Going “off-net” indicated that he did not complete the task entirely digitally. OrcSlayer had investigated and collected some of the information the old-fashioned way—by physically interacting with other humans. Kenny knew that type of work required time, sharp investigative skills, and maybe even a payoff or two. OrcSlayer would not have done so without good reason and probably wouldn’t be mentioning his effort unless he wanted to be compensated.

Hobbit: better not be messing with me

OrcSlayer: nobody messes with you

Hobbit: money or favor?

OrcSlayer: more money … same as last time

Hobbit: gimme the gist first

OrcSlayer: major harassment issues in Queens … almost kicked off force … sealed records … I have everything

Hobbit: transferring money now … want docs in my box within the hour … good work

OrcSlayer: anything for Hobbit

Transferring money anonymously had become very difficult in recent years, but Kenny had the funds delivered in just a few keystrokes.

He swirled his cognac and scrolled through a list of real-time freelance gigs available through an online clearinghouse buried deep in the Web—a place where anonymous customers paid top dollar for the cyber services of anonymous providers. These included some extreme jobs: advanced skip traces, cyber espionage, critical infrastructure attacks, bank crashing, disruptive operations, sabotage, identity wipe and destruction. The capabilities required to perform these jobs shrank the pool of potential contractors drastically. Conversely, the fees skyrocketed once one got beyond garden-variety tasks like causing denials of service (DOSs) and introducing simple viruses. There was big money to be made, but big money always came with substantial risk that most freelancers couldn’t stomach, like walking into a sting operation. This made the pool even smaller and the fees even higher.

Who were the clients? Most of the time he had no idea. Other times he probably could have pieced it together if he cared; he just didn’t. On at least one occasion Kenny suspected that he was doing a freelance gig for the Office of Tailored Access Operations (TAO), a clandestine group within the National Security Agency. Call it intuition.

Nothing interested him. Nothing got his blood pumping. Kenny had done it all and had plenty of money. Yet he stayed in the game, like a drug addict futilely chasing the first hit. He had done risky jobs that brought him small fortunes and notoriety in underground circles, but the inimitable rush he craved was elusive, like a blissful lightning that refused to strike twice.

He contemplated going to bed but looked at his watch and decided that he could put in an hour or two of work before turning in. More than enough time to cause trouble for a bank in Cyprus. Besides, he was curious to see what Officer Charlie Worth had been up to in Queens.

Sixty-nine

“Seriously, this is fantastic,” said Mark, his mouth full of the Colombian dish Luci had made. “I’m impressed. You’ve always been a good cook, but this is a new level.”

She smiled and leaned over to place her empty plate on the night table next to her bed and took a long sip of ice water.

“Thanks. I’ve been practicing and experimenting with different things for years. It distracts me from work and helps me relax. I’m glad you like it.”

Mark finished his plate, leaned back against the headboard, and wrapped his arms around her. They lay there silently, their minds racing with excitement and curiosity about their future together. Both wanted to get married and have kids, but they had yet to talk about the timing or even where they would eventually live. Luci’s house? New house? Those details would all be worked out eventually. The important thing was that they were finally together.

“I know you miss Agnes, Mark. And you’ve told me how much Father Peck meant to you. And I know you’d never change that for the world. But do you ever wonder about your real parents? Who they were? Why they gave you up for adoption?”

He thought for a moment while caressing her bare shoulder.

“No. Not really,” he answered.

“It would bother me. I would have to know. What about Agnes? Did she ever bring it up or offer any information?”

“Nope. I guess she either never knew or had her own reasons for never bringing it up. I don’t ever think about it, and at this point it doesn’t matter anyway. I’ve got you and that’s all that matters.”

He leaned over, turned off the light, and rolled on top of her.

“Let me guess, you have an early morning tomorrow?” Mark asked.

She wrapped her arms and legs around him tightly and bit down firmly on his ear lobe. “Actually, I’m taking a personal day,” she whispered through clenched teeth.

“No curfew?” he asked.

“No curfew,” she said, gently tapping a soft hand on top of his head a few times before tenderly pushing downward. “So why don’t you get back to work.”

Seventy

McDermott and Meghan stood in the kitchen of the Senator’s fifth-floor apartment and stared at the television in awe.

“What the hell happened? This is surreal,” stated Meghan.

“Look at the fear in his eyes. He’s petrified. And now I’m petrified,” answered McDermott.

When screening her mother’s mail a few days earlier, Meghan had opened an anonymous envelope with several typed pages inside. After she had picked her jaw up from the floor, she immediately interrupted McDermott’s security briefing to share the new information.

Both agreed that the information must be shared with the public but were fearful of the fallout. So far, McDermott’s attempted ventures into the black-ops world had been met with overt hostility. Leaking this information might go a bridge too far and make matters even worse for them. As they contemplated their options, a light bulb lit up over Meghan’s head.

“Why don’t we just give it to someone with more political clout—someone established and better at this, maybe even someone a bit narcissistic, up for reelection with eyes on the presidency one day?”

“The minority leader?” asked McDermott.

“Why not? He’ll receive it the same way we did but will make a beeline for the cameras. The information gets out, but we don’t have to look for plastic on the floor of every room we walk into for the rest of our lives. What do you say?”

“Are you sure we’re not being cowardly? This is some of the stuff I’ve been digging for, and now that I might have something I immediately hand it off?”

“It’s not cowardly. Remember what you said about the cause and having nothing to prove? As long as we stay true to the cause, we can sleep at night. Someone else can take the credit, right? It’s not cowardly, Mom. It’s altruistic. You can get the information to the American people without jeopardizing your position. And they have a right to know.”

The minority leader invited a handful of journalists into his office within a few hours of receiving the information.

“Under my direction, my staff has just completed an exhaustive investigation into the unauthorized and perhaps illegal actions of the current administration. I cannot go into specifics just yet, but suffice it to say that the results of the investigation are beyond troubling. The American people and the world we lead deserve better.”

He went on to broadly describe covert operations run by unaccountable organizations. “Such organizations are not only illegal, but costly to the taxpayers and irreparably damaging to the nation’s credibility.”

Then he dropped the bomb. For the first time since its inception, the Family was mentioned by name in public. At the end of his impromptu, invitation-only press conference, he took no questions. The journalists scurried to break the story and started sharing information before they had even left his office.

Six hours later, the minority leader stood at the podium a quivering mess. He had acted too soon. His announcement was premature. He was not really sure where the information came from and could not verify the claims. He may have been duped by a practical joke.

“In conclusion, I cannot verify any of the information I foolishly passed on and I apologize for creating a storm over nothing.”

Meghan muted the television after he left the podium and pointed the remote control at her mother.

“You know what? This is profoundly embarrassing for a man obsessed with his own image and legacy. This could torpedo his entire political career. I can only assume that the alternative was much worse for a guy like him to completely fold and run away with his tail between his legs. And that scares the living shit out of me.”

“Me too,” said McDermott.

What the hell have I gotten us into?

Seventy-one

“I thought you already finished all the inside painting,” Andy wondered.

“I did, but some spots needed a second coat and I’ve been putting it off. Now it’s done,” Mark answered, washing his hands in the kitchen sink.

“Putting it off? I hope your work ethic isn’t slacking, Landry. I worry about you going to shit in your retirement years. Use it or lose it, right?”

Mark dried his hands with a dish towel and looked at his friend, who was lying on the couch and reading a magazine. “You’re worried about my work ethic? Dude, it’s the last day of school and you took a sick day. Use them or lose them, right? Maybe the guy who has sat on his ass all day and watched me bust mine should worry about his own slacking,” Mark declared, startling Andy with a quick snap of the towel against the side of his head.

“Enough violence!” Andy protested.

Mark popped a muscle relaxer into his mouth, washed it down with a tall glass of cold water, and held up the prescription bottle. “My back and arms are killing me from all this painting. Agnes never took anything for pain or to help her sleep. But she never threw the stuff out either. You should see the stockpile I found in her bathroom closet.”

“Throw it all out, brother. You don’t want that stuff lying around the house. We’ve got a huge prescription drug problem in the state. I haven’t taken so much as an aspirin in years. Don’t be a wussy, pain is all mind over matter anyway,” said Andy.

“What about beer? That doesn’t count?” asked Mark.

Andy ignored the question and continued reading the local newspaper’s profiles of the forty most interesting people in the Merrimack Valley of Massachusetts. “I can’t believe some of the people on this list. Why am I not on this list?”

Mark heard a knock at the side door and assumed it was their pizza.

“Because people have to go to the Witch Hunt to hear your schtick. Maybe you need a bigger platform,” he offered as he saw Kenny through the blinds and opened the door.

“Come on in, Kenny. You know the mayor, right?”

Kenny looked at Andy and smiled. “Yeah, hi, Andy.”

Andy waved from the couch and continued reading.

“Mark, here’s the information you asked about,” he said, softly placing a thin folder on the kitchen counter. “You were right. There are a ton of women out there named Lois Sumner, but if you have some specific information and the right tools you can whittle the list down pretty quickly. The one you’re looking for is very much alive and pretty well known, actually. I can’t believe she was friends with Agnes. You know …”

Mark raised a hand to cut him off and glanced at Andy on the couch, indicating that he wanted to keep the information private. “I appreciate that, Kenny. Thanks for doing this,” he answered as he flipped open the folder to reveal its contents.

Kenny shrugged his shoulders and watched as Mark’s curiosity turned to shock and disbelief within seconds. Mark looked up several times but said nothing as he rifled through the eight or ten pages of biographical data in the folder. When he had finished, he grabbed two cold beers from the refrigerator, popped them open on the side of the counter, and handed one to his neighbor.

“Kenny, are you messing with me? If you are, that’s fine—good one, you got me. But I need to know now.”

Kenny chugged half his beer and stifled a belch. “No, I’m not messing with you.”

Mark ran his hands through his hair and paced the kitchen.

“I don’t doubt you or your talents. But I was not expecting this,” Mark said. Then he leaned in and spoke in a softer voice. “Is there any doubt in your mind about this? And remember, this needs to stay between us, okay?” he said, nodding his head in the direction of the couch.

“One hundred percent positive, Mark. So, how’s Luci doing?” he asked.

“She’s great, Kenny. Never been better,” he answered as he continued to pace and shake his head in disbelief.

“Good. I’m glad. They say the kid is going to be all right too,” he added.

“That’s good,” said Mark, staring out the window into the backyard. “Wait, what kid? What are you talking about?”

Kenny drained the rest of his beer and looked at Mark quizzically before answering.

“The kid she shot this morning.”