Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel (3 page)

Four

Dunbar was the founder and head of the Tactical Training Unit (TTU), which was sometimes alternatively referred to as the Battle Training Unit (BTU) or the Intelligence Focus Group (IFG), and occasionally as the Battle Administration Detachment (BAD). The name changed frequently and without notice in order to avoid unnecessary oversight from the bean counters, congressional committees in D.C., crusading journalists, or foreign spies. Dunbar and his band of operators, uninterested in keeping up with the name changes, simply referred to themselves as “the Family.” As an unwritten rule, the few outsiders familiar with the organization knew to stick with whatever its official name was at the time. “The Family” was for Family members only.

Besides Dunbar, Doc was the most influential and high-profile member of the organization. He was the first person all new Family members spoke with at length, and debriefing with Doc was mandatory after every mission, whether or not any shots had been fired. He knew everything there was to know about each operator and was equally concerned with mission accomplishment and their personal welfare. In short, he made sure nobody was wound too tight for living. If they were, he’d talk them off the ledge and help them get their heads on straight. It was Doc who first broke the news about Agnes Landry’s death to Mark.

He had delivered the message a week earlier on a small U.S. Navy vessel somewhere in the Mediterranean. Mark had just completed a search-and-destroy mission in eastern Ukraine with his frequent mission partner Billy, a boisterous good ol’ boy from Oklahoma City. Over the previous three years, they had successfully completed similar missions across Europe without detection or incident, and this one had been no different. It didn’t hurt that their target, a Russian arms dealer on the verge of selling chemical weapons to al-Qaeda terrorists, was also an arrogant—and ultimately predictable—drunken idiot. Mark had shot him in the head twice with a suppressed Bulgarian Makarov 9mm as he soaked in a local prostitute’s tub. Mark and Billy were out of the country before the body was even discovered.

After debriefing the operations folks on the details of the mission, Doc asked Mark if he could have a private word with him in the next conference room after he wrapped up. Mark spent a few minutes in small talk with Billy, who was about to take leave to spend some time with family in Oklahoma. They parted with a hug, and Mark pulled him tight.

“Don’t go cheating on me.”

“Later, man. I’m catching a ride off this thing in thirty minutes. Don’t call me unless World War Three breaks out,” replied Billy.

Mark smiled back and nodded. “Go, before I cry,” he added sarcastically.

Mark was heading to his quarters for some much-needed sleep when he remembered that Doc wanted to speak with him about something. He knocked twice on Doc’s door as he entered and plopped down in the nearest seat.

“What’s up?”

              “There’s something I need to tell you, Mark.”

              Doc’s change in tone and demeanor from the briefing room got Mark’s attention immediately. Since he had no family besides Agnes Landry, who was well into her eighties and very frail the last time he saw her, he assumed it must have something to do with her.

“Agnes?” he asked.

              “I’m sorry. She passed away just over a week ago in her home. We briefly considered pulling you from the field, but—”

              “No, that’s fine. She never would have wanted that.” Mark bowed his head, exhaled deeply, and paused for a few seconds before asking.

              “How?”

              “She fell, Mark. She fell down the stairs. I spoke to the local authorities myself and the autopsy report suggests she died instantly. She didn’t suffer. I’m sorry, Mark. We all are. We know how much she meant to you,” said Doc before stepping out of the room.

              Mark said nothing as he stood up and walked to the small porthole that passed for a window. He just stared into the darkness and grudgingly accepted the fact that the only person who ever loved him, the only person willing to take him in and care for him and raise him, was now with the God she lived to serve. He closed his eyes and compartmentalized the grief with the help of several deep breaths. There would be time to grieve later.

When Doc returned, Mark was back in the chair flipping through his own personnel file, which had been left out on the desk. Doc snatched the file out of his hands and playfully smacked him on the top of his head with it. “Just because it has your name on it doesn’t make it yours.”

              Mark shrugged his shoulders and looked away as Doc continued.

“It’s time for some career counseling, Mark.” The change in tone was a not-so-subtle hint that they were getting back to business. Mark sat up a little straighter and remade eye contact.

              “You’re still a young man but you’ve already got your twenty years. If you wanted, you could retire today and ride off into the sunset. Between your pension and all the money you’ve socked away over the years, you could have a pretty comfortable retirement. Or you could get a job in the private sector, barely work, and still probably make yourself a small fortune.” Doc paused and waited for a reaction.

              Mark ignored the comment about his personal finances. Obviously, the Family kept tabs on its people. That would include how much money he had and where he kept it. He paused briefly to search for the right words. They never came, so he decided to just cut to the chase.

“Are you trying to get rid of me, Doc?”

“Not in the least. You have a home with us as long as you’d like. Operations, training, admin—you name it.” Seeing Mark wince as he mentioned training and admin, he pointed to the thick file sitting on the desk in front of him. “I’m just saying, with a record like yours, you can pretty much call your shots and pick your spots.”

Mark’s reaction to the compliments was to look away and fidget in his seat. Doc grabbed the file, opened it on his lap, and thumbed through it slowly, even though he knew most of it by heart.

“Stellar evaluations covering eight years in the Family. Almost no time off unless I forced you to take it. Great peer reviews from team missions. Multiple one-man missions. Awards, decorations, no disciplinary or security issues. A model operator.”

Mark interrupted. “The same can be said about every other Family member.”

“Normally that would be true,” Doc replied. “But your file contains something that no other member in the history of the Family has ever had in their file.”

Mark thought hard for a few seconds, furled his brow, and looked at Doc sideways. “What’s that?”

Doc removed a single sheet of thick, heavy paper from the folder. He held it in front of his face with two fingers and peered at Mark over the top of it. Mark maintained eye contact for a second before dropping his eyes to the lavish seal that adorned the top of the page: the official seal of the President of the United States.

“Berlin,” said Doc.

Mark had not seen the letter since the day it was delivered. It contained numerous typed paragraphs praising his courageous service, followed by several sentences elegantly written in the Commander-in-Chief’s own hand. Mark nodded and Doc dropped the paper back into the file.

“You are on leave as of right now. Take as much time off as you want or need, but don’t even think of coming back to work for at least a month. The rest of the Family has everything covered. Hell, take a few months if you want it. You’ve earned it.”

              Mark returned to his quarters on the bottom deck of the ship without making eye contact with anyone he passed on the way. He had much to think about, but the first order of business would be to go home and pay his final respects to Agnes Landry. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Five

When he finished his prayer, Mark opened his eyes just in time to notice a police cruiser approaching out of the corner of his right eye. He ignored it and kissed his hand before bending down and placing it gently atop Agnes Landry’s tombstone. After a few solemn seconds he whispered aloud.

“Goodbye, Agnes. Thank you. I love you.”

He let go of the stone and stood up straight. As he did, he heard the soft sound of footsteps approaching from behind. He didn’t turn around until he heard the voice.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said as he slowly turned to face the speaker.

Five feet away stood a female police officer with deep brown eyes, dark brown skin, full lips, dark black hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, hands on her hips, and a half-smile on her face that could melt a glacier. Mark looked her in the eyes and half-smiled back. Then he pointed with his chin to the mobile camera that was pinned to the center of her pressed uniform, between her badge and nameplate. 

“Is that thing on?”

“No.”

“Prove it.”

Officer Luci Alvarez’s smooth face broke into a wide grin and then a beaming ear-to-ear smile straight out of a toothpaste commercial.  She stepped forward, clasped both of Mark’s hands in hers, and kissed him softly on the side of his clean-shaven face.  With interwoven fingers, they firmly embraced and kissed each other’s cheeks several times before backing off like two kids at a church dance, afraid of being observed by a chaperone.

“I was wondering when you were going to show up,” she said first.

“Don’t say that. I got here as soon as I could.”

“I know that,” she said as she slapped his shoulder. “I’m just saying it’s good to see you.”

“I wish I could have been here sooner. And I’m sorry I didn’t let you know when I was coming.”

“Spare me. I had low expectations to begin with. Two calls in two years—actually, one call and one drunken voicemail from God knows where. Physically showing up is a huge improvement.”

He pondered the drunken voicemail for a second.

Serbia? No, couldn’t have been
.
Chechnya?
Maybe Vienna or somewhere in Romania? Wherever it was, it had to have been before Berlin. Whatever. Doesn’t matter.

“How’d you know I was in town?”

“You passed my cruiser next to the gas station across the street from the airport. Didn’t you see me sitting there, or have you forgotten about all that ‘situational awareness’ you used to always preach about?” she said, exaggerating the military term for effect.

“I just assumed whoever was in the cruiser was sleeping or playing with their smartphone. A band of gypsies carrying kidnapped children could have pranced by that cruiser and I doubt anyone would have noticed,” he deadpanned.

“Yeah, well, I noticed a suspicious looking middle-aged white male with Virginia plates and followed you here.”

“Since when is thirty-nine considered middle-aged?” he asked, feigning insult as best he could but knowing she could read him like a book.

“Since now,” she said.

A gravelly voice broke in, talking through the tiny speaker attached to the front of her right shoulder.

“
Control to 307
.”

Luci held up a finger with one hand, tilted her head toward her shoulder, and reached with the other hand to push the talk button on the side of the radio.

“307,” she answered.

“Proceed to 39 Main Street and speak with the owner about some new graffiti on the side of the building. Sounds like it’s more of the same. Investigate and file a report, please.”

“Received,” she answered.

She turned her attention back to Mark, who spoke before she could.

“What time are you off? Stop by the house later if you want. I’ll be there.”

“8 p.m., but who knows these days. Depends on a few things. I’ll try.”

“Just stop by. I’m much more fun than chasing teens with spray paint,” he offered sarcastically.

“Very funny. Goodbye for now. Glad you’re home,” she said as she grabbed him firmly around the bicep and squeezed. “Maybe you’ll see me later. Maybe you won’t.”

He watched her walk away briskly and didn’t take his eyes off her cruiser until it disappeared over the far hill of the cemetery. Then he turned to the tombstone one last time.

“Thanks for her too, Agnes.”

Six

Agnes Landry had been a woman of many skills, but the ability to sit still was not one of them. She had taught German at Saint Patrick’s Middle School in southern New Hampshire for over fifty years and put in just as much time, for no pay, with a long list of charities and nonprofits, mostly in Lawrence, Massachusetts, where she had had many friends—most of them nuns.

She opted not to drag Mark north with her every day to attend Saint Patrick’s. Instead, for reasons she never explained, she enrolled him in the local public school system. In exchange, he had to spend his weekends washing dishes, serving food, and helping people less fortunate than he. He was rather ambivalent toward this work until he reached his mid-teens and started taking an interest in girls. That was when he and Luci Alvarez met for the first time.

He hadn’t been crazy about attending the annual summer youth dance at Saint Lucia’s in Lawrence but figured it couldn’t be any worse than scrubbing pots and pans, delivering meals to the sick and elderly, or performing basic handyman chores for people he’d never met and would probably never see again. But he actually liked the outfit Agnes had bought for him to wear for the occasion: tan khakis, white oxford cloth button-down shirt, navy blue blazer, and bright red tie. He topped off the outfit with a pair of docksiders that had seen better days. When he emerged from his bedroom and shuffled down the stairs, Agnes sent him right back up to put on socks and a belt.

She kept talking, calling toward the ceiling as he complied. “These kids are much more formal than the kids in your school, Mark. I’ve seen what some of those kids wear in public. Most of them wouldn’t even be let into Saint Lucia’s tonight. They may be wealthier, but the kids you’ll meet tonight have better manners and a sense of the occasion that’ll be good for you to experience.”

She turned around to find Mark already back downstairs and ready for inspection. She looked him up and down, smiled, kissed him on the forehead, and winked at him. “Who knows, some of it may even rub off on you.”

Thirty minutes later Mark—the only person wearing casual khakis and a sport coat—was drowning in a sea of brightly colored formal gowns and dark, double-breasted suits. He and Agnes both surveyed the dapper crowd and then looked at each other.

“At least you’re wearing a belt and socks,” she said before walking over to join the other chaperones.

Mark spent the next hour trying in vain not to look self-conscious. He found that task impossible while standing still, so he started taking slow laps around the cafeteria, acting as if he knew where he was going and occasionally smiling at the girls.

Besides Agnes and a few other chaperones, he was the only white kid in the room. Still worse, it was mid-July and there was no air conditioning. Even though none of the other dancegoers was displaying a bead of sweat, Mark’s shirt was soon soaked and his hair visibly wet from perspiration.

The last straw came when a group of dancers passed by and Mark was almost floored by the cloud of perfume and cologne that traveled with them. He made a break for the bathroom, where he removed his coat and splashed cold water on his face. Then he occupied the stall closest to the window so he could cool off, breathe, and collect his thoughts.

Scrubbing pots and pans and serving food to old people wouldn’t be so bad right now.

Once he had caught his breath and enough of his sweat had evaporated, Mark put his jacket back on and walked out of the bathroom, directly into a group of boys who had obviously been waiting for him.

“You lost?” asked one of the bigger boys.

“No.”

“You got a problem?” asked the smallest one in the group.

Mark said nothing but looked at him as one would look at an annoying mosquito, then attempted to walk around the group and back to the dance. Several arms pushed him back.

“Look, I don’t want any trouble, guys. I’m actually on my way out.”

They all started talking at the same time in response, and Mark couldn’t follow a single word. He attempted to walk around the group another time but was again pushed back as they fanned out to block the hallway. This time a different kid, not as big as the first but with a huge head, stepped forward and tried to grab Mark by the collars of his new sport coat.

Mark slapped his hands down, which incited a roar from the other boys, and simultaneously shuffled backwards down the hall to draw the kid away from the immediate support of his buddies.

“I don’t want any trouble,” said Mark two or three times before Big Head lunged at him and gave him no choice. Mark stepped to his left while bringing his right hand up to simultaneously parry the clumsy strike and trap the other boy’s hand in a painful wristlock. Slamming him up against the wall would have immediately drawn the rest of the group into the fight; instead he cinched the wrist as hard as he could without breaking it and pulled him in close enough for a very brief conversation. His Spanish surprised the other kid.

“I don’t want to hurt you or any of your friends, but I will if you don’t cut the shit right now.” He squeezed the wrist even harder and pointed at the other boys with his free hand. “I’m going to let you go now. Tell your friends to back off and don’t think for a second I can’t get you right back in this position whenever I want. Got it?”

“
Sí, sí
. Just let me go, man, we were just kidding! Nobody was gonna hurt you, man! We were just playing.”

Mark knew this was complete bullshit. These kids were no gangbangers, but they certainly wouldn’t have let up if Mark had cowered and begged for mercy. No, they would have doubled-downed and enjoyed their momentary position of power over what they assumed was some rich white kid from out of town looking to invade their territory. He resisted the urge to break the wrist and let go.

Big Head grabbed his nearly broken wrist with his good hand and winced. Mark looked up in time to see the other boys part like the Red Sea, their eyes following Luci Alvarez as she entered the fray with the grace, confidence, and presence of a queen.  She wore her straight black hair down to her shoulders. Bright red lipstick. Perfect teeth. A strapless dark blue dress hugged her curves until just above the knee, and she had the smoothest bronze legs Mark had ever seen. She topped it off with a pair of high heels so high that most white girls her age, or any age for that matter, could never manage them. Yet she made it look easy as she walked slowly, heel to toe, one foot in front of the other as if walking on a tightrope, fully aware that all eyes were focused on her.