Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel (4 page)

Seven

“There you are!” she said to Mark as she grabbed his hand. “He’s with me, Cacón,” she said coldly to the other boy, who was still trying to determine if his wrist was broken. Then she looked Mark in the eyes and winked. “Follow me. “

Once again the crowd parted as Luci moved slowly and confidently down the hall with a smile on her face, holding Mark’s hand behind her, pressed against the small of her back as she walked. He simply followed, eyes straight ahead, resisting the urge to steal glances at her body. “I’m with her,” he casually said to the crowd as they passed by.

“Let’s go to the lounge so we can talk. There are a bunch of chaperones in there so nobody will bother us,” she said over her shoulder once they had cleared the crowd.

“What did you call that guy? Cacón?” Mark asked.

“Yeah, why?

“Just wondering,” he answered.

“It means big head.”

When they entered the lounge, Luci let go of Mark’s hand and pointed to two chairs in the corner. “Grab those, I’ll get drinks.”

She returned with two plastic cups filled with ice cubes and red fruit punch.

“Thank you,” said Mark politely.

“No problem. I’m Luci. What’s your name, where are you from, and how the heck did you end up here?” she asked bluntly.

Mark explained his relationship to Agnes Landry and was unsurprised when Luci said “
Sí, Doña
Landry
! Everyone knows her.”

Talking to Luci came easy to Mark. She was warm, confident, and sharp as a tack. And she was the most gorgeous girl who had ever paid attention to him.

“So, back in the hallway earlier. Why did you help—”

“Why did I help you?” she interrupted.

“No, them. I was doing just fine. Why did you help them?” he replied with a wide confident smile that took her by surprise. He no longer seemed like some random gringo in distress. He was confident but not arrogant, and for Luci his quiet confidence was a welcome change from the boys she was used to interacting with. It showed that he had nothing to prove. Her eyes widened for a split second, her body language loosened up, and she subconsciously leaned in just a little bit closer.

“Let’s just say I know what it’s like to be the only different person in the room,” she said with a softness and vulnerability he had not yet witnessed. “I don’t expect you to notice, but I’m the only
colombiana
here tonight, and my family is one of the few Colombian families in a city full of Puerto Ricans and Dominicans.”

Mark switched to Spanish.

“
I figured something like that. I noticed almost immediately. You carry yourself a bit different. Not better or worse—just different. And when I saw the way those guys parted for you, I knew that somebody different, somebody special, was coming through the crowd
.”

Luci’s eyes and mouth popped open, but she made no sound until she had covered her face with her hands and bowed her head. Then she let loose with a laugh so loud it turned the heads of everyone in the room. She smiled warmly with half-closed eyes. “How long were you going to wait before you let me know you speak Spanish? Until I said something stupid in front of you? Or about you? You’re full of surprises!”

They sat together and talked the rest of the night, exchanged phone numbers, and never once noticed the empty punch bowl or dwindling crowd. When Luci’s friend tapped her on the shoulder to say that it was time to go, they stood up and she kissed Mark on the cheek. He watched as she reluctantly walked away. Agnes had watched the exchange from her chaperone’s perch and put her hand on Mark’s shoulder as she approached from behind.

“Let’s go home, Romeo.”

Eight

“You are supposed to be changing a flat tire. Why are you smiling?” asked the tall, bearded instructor. “Do Americans smile when they change tires? No. They grimace and complain about each and every little inconvenience that life throws at them. If you are to blend in, you must do the same.”

The warriors listened and continued changing the tire with appropriately pissed-off American looks on their faces while waiting for the targets. When the car approached and slowed to a halt to offer assistance, both men simulated attacking the driver and family with pistols and knives.

“Very good, the bloodier the better! Replace the Mercedes-Benz hood ornament with the father’s head in front of the children if you can! Enjoy it! Drink it in and give all praise to God!” he preached to his eager pupils.

Amir joined the chorus of war cries and felt his adrenaline rush as he imagined himself hacking away at the man’s wife and children with his own knife.

How much longer must I wait for the glory I have earned?

“Two weeks,” the imam had said. “Two weeks of very special training for our most special martyrs. Then you will depart for the Dar al-Harb and fulfill your destinies.”

Amir had bristled at the words. More training. More time.

Be patient. God has chosen you.

He had breezed through the training thus far and easily outperformed all the other chosen martyrs.

“Now simulate the mission again, but this time only using your left hand,” the instructor had said to Amir with a smile as he pointed to the two-story structure on the other side of the fence.

Child’s play.

The former athlete vaulted over the fence, rapidly crossed the twenty yards or so between the fence and house, and scaled the corner bricks until he was high enough to disappear into a second-story window. This time the warrior playing the father of the family was awake, with a gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

“Who is there? Get out of my house right now! The police are on the way,” he managed to say before having his throat slit from behind. Amir decided to save his bullets for the police and slaughtered the children in their beds with the knife—all with his right arm tied tightly to his side.

Single targets. Multiple targets. Stationary targets. Moving targets. Intensive close-quarters battle training. Pistols. Rifles. Knives. Hand to hand. Two weeks without knowing the details of his holy mission. Two weeks to sharpen every skill and plan for every conceivable contingency. Two weeks of torturous waiting … now complete.

The spiritual council awaited him on the other side of the door. He breathed deeply, checked his appearance one last time, and knocked twice.

Nine

Agnes Landry’s house—now Mark’s—was a small colonial that sat directly at the end of a downhill cul-de-sac exactly four miles from the town center. The main floor had a kitchen with a small diner-like booth built into the corner, its straight-backed seats slightly more comfortable than church pews. There was also a family room that Agnes had called the “parlor” and a tiny half-bathroom. Next to the bathroom was another room just big enough to hold her desk, a few filing cabinets, and a rocking chair. Upstairs were two bedrooms of equal size and one full bath. Due to constant water seeping through the fieldstone foundation, the unfinished basement had been used only to store a handful of metal folding chairs that Agnes would lug upstairs when her guests outnumbered the seats available. There was no garage. Acres of protected forest abutted the back of the house.

Mark turned on to Chestnut Lane and started the final descent to the house. He breathed deeply and let gravity do its work as he coasted past the few other homes that shared the wide street. As a child he remembered running to the top of the hill and letting all types of balls—even a bowling ball once—roll freely and find their own way down the hill. No matter where he released them, they would always funnel into his narrow driveway before ending up in the woods behind the house.

Over the years, those woods had been the resting place of countless neighborhood balls, bikes, skates, toys, and (during one slippery winter) a poorly parked car that had slid all the way down from the first house at the top of the street and straight through the Landrys’ driveway before nearly shattering on impact with a cluster of deep-rooted walnut trees. “See that? It’s a good thing we don’t have a garage,” Agnes had said as she handed Mark a shovel and sent him out to clean off her snow-covered Buick.

Mark climbed the wooden stairs that led to the side door and opened it with the key he had pinched between his thumb and pointer finger. He carried nothing else. His bags could wait until later.

Ten

When Officer Luci Alvarez arrived at 39 Main Street and parked her cruiser, an impatient forty-six-year-old Lee Carter was waiting at the side of the building with a gallon of white paint and a roller. Once Luci finished taking pictures and filling out her report, he would quickly paint over the graffiti and hope that none of his daytime drinking customers leaned against the wall before it dried.

Carter was the third-generation owner of the Witch Hunt, a pub opened by his grandfather, whose love of local history was surpassed only by his love of whiskey and a captive audience for his stories. The pub’s name was a nod to the infamous 1692 Salem Witch Trials, to which the town had sent more than its fair share of accused. He was talking on his cell phone while pacing and waving his arms when Luci arrived.

Lucy depressed the talk button on her radio and spoke clearly.

“307 to control.”

“Control’s on,” answered the same gravelly voice from before.

“I’ll be out at 39 Main.”

“Received.”

Lucy emerged from the cruiser with her camera in hand and waved at Mr. Carter before moving around and opening the trunk to retrieve a tape measure, latex gloves, evidence bags, and a few other things she knew she wouldn’t need. She had answered identical calls nearly a dozen times over the past few months, and this was her third or fourth visit to the Witch Hunt. She paused for a moment to take a deep breath before closing the trunk and walking calmly yet purposefully toward the agitated pub owner.

Luci Alvarez, age thirty-eight, was born in Bogotá, Colombia, to struggling parents who sent her to live with her grandparents in Lawrence, Massachusetts when she was three. Life was not easy for one of the few Colombian families in what had already been a predominantly Puerto Rican and Dominican city for decades. Actually, life wasn’t easy for any Latino family in Lawrence, but it was particularly difficult for Luci’s, because their roots were no more stable than the broken sidewalks on which she walked to school.

Carlos Alvarez, a custodian and handyman, and his wife Carmen, a cleaning lady at the district courthouse, worked their fingers to the bone and pinched pennies in order to provide their granddaughter with every opportunity they could afford. Unfortunately, that was not very much. But what they had lacked in financial means they easily made up for in love, attention, and encouragement. As a result, Luci stayed out of trouble when many of the other girls in the neighborhood did not, and her academic performance earned her a full tuition scholarship to Boston University, where she eventually graduated summa cum laude with a B.S. in psychology while working a side job.

After graduation, which neither of her actual parents attended or acknowledged, she had worked at various counseling jobs before acing the civil service exam and joining the Lawrence Police Department. But a corrupt city government and a depressed local economy that generated ever lower municipal tax revenues eventually threatened to kill her hopes of a long career policing the streets and helping young people make good decisions. With her stellar resume and skills, she searched for open positions on police forces in surrounding towns. When an opportunity in Mark and Agnes’s hometown presented itself, she quickly traded uniforms before she could get furloughed. Now here she was, a highly educated, naturalized American citizen dedicated to public service, about to be judged solely on her ethnicity by a man who had obtained his only job by inheritance.

“I thought you said you were going to do something about this?” Mr. Carter said after abruptly finishing his conversation and stuffing his cell phone into the front pocket of his faded jeans.

Luci looked up at the fresh graffiti for a moment before turning his way and speaking. “Good morning, Mr. Carter,” she replied.

“Good morning,” he replied, annoyed by the pleasantries. “Seriously, when are you going to do something about those people?”

“I’m not sure which people you’re referring to, Mr. Carter.”

He rolled his eyes. “For the love of God, they’re practically signing their names all over town. Why can’t you just go down to where they all live, find the ones responsible, and take care of this before it escalates? It seems to me it wouldn’t be that hard,” he added with a heavy dose of condescension.

“We’re doing our best, Mr. Carter. I can promise you that,” she answered cheerfully. “Let’s see what we have today.” Luci raised the camera to her eyes, backed up until all the graffiti fit within the frame, and snapped several photos.  Then she lowered the camera and spent a few moments looking at the wall and soaking it all in, as if studying a piece of modern art at a museum instead of fresh graffiti on Main Street. She stepped forward and ran her hand along the wall.

The same paint.
Does that mean anything? Is it coincidence? Did different people paint these? Or is it all from the same person or group of people? If it is the same person or group, are they deliberately making them bigger to increase the impact? What’s the goal here? Marking territory? A warning? Or could it just be some kind of hoax or prank? Each piece of graffiti has the crown and letters, but no other message.

Then she turned her attention back to Mr. Carter.

              “Any idea what time it happened, Mr. Carter?” she asked.

              “I closed up and left at about 2:45 a.m. Must have been after that.”

              “Have you considered adding an outdoor camera to your security system?”

              “No, I haven’t,” he said angrily. “I’ll fight crime on the inside of my business, Officer Alvarez. You guys are supposed to have the outside covered, right? My taxes already help fund the police department. You want me to buy your equipment too? Besides, you and I both know those people are vandalizers and would just rip it down.”

              Luci continued listening and smiled, using every shred of self-discipline she could muster to keep her thoughts to herself.

Vandalizers? You must mean vandals. English is my second language and I know that. And cameras don’t discriminate. A camera right here would catch the comings and goings of all the Witch Hunt’s customers—and you too. What time people come and go. Who they come and go with. A camera here might boost security, but it could also be bad for business. I’m sure you have already considered that.

             
“I’ll file a report and recommend the late shift increase its presence here during those early morning hours. I’ll also ask around to see if anyone saw or heard anything between 2:45 a.m. and sunrise. If I learn anything, I’ll let you know. I’d ask you to do the same.”

              “In other words, I shouldn’t count on you ever actually finding out who did this,” he asked, eyes quickly darting right and left before he continued. “You know something—I’m not racist, so don’t take this the wrong way, but some folks in town think you may be protecting these people. Not because you necessarily agree with them, but maybe because you’re afraid of them or something. I don’t know,” he said, his voice trailing off at the end as if he realized his remarks were baseless but still felt obliged to finish.

              Luci was unfazed. “Thank you for sharing that, Mr. Carter. I don’t waste a lot of time worrying about what other people think. I can’t control that. I just focus on the things I can control, like doing my job. I’ll be in touch. I hope your day gets better from here.” She smiled and walked back toward her cruiser.

              He shook his head from side to side.

Why didn’t you keep your big trap shut, Carter? Dammit.

“You too, Luci. Thanks,” he called out as she was walking away.

             
Lucy started her cruiser and grabbed her radio.

              “307 to Control. I’ll be clear from 39 Main.”

              “Received.”

              As she drove away from the Witch Hunt, she could see Lee Carter starting to paint over the graffiti in her rear-view mirror.

Something tells me he’s going to need a lot more paint before this is over.