Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel (40 page)
Read Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel Online
Authors: Randall H Miller
Mark crept through the house wearing a set of dark overalls and a black mask. Thick neoprene gloves covered his hands, and surgical booties were wrapped tightly around his running sneakers. He could hear Dunbar’s voice in his head as he searched each room.
Skilled operators like you have a responsibility to keep people safe, Mark. If we can do that and play by the rules
—
great, everyone’s happy. But there may be times when you’re tempted to act as judge, jury, and executioner, and there won’t be a federal prosecutor looking over your shoulder. Trust your instincts, but never do anything that can’t be undone unless you’re one hundred percent sure you’ll be able to live with it.
As the search unfolded and the damning evidence continued to mount, any doubt in Landry’s mind quickly dissipated. Charlie Worth had tried to kill Luci. The only thing left to do was wait for the target.
Lee Carter pulled into the driveway and started to get out of the car.
“I don’t need you to walk me inside like a chick, Lee. I can get there myself. Thanks for the ride. I’ll come get my car in the morning,” said Charlie, slurring his words as he sloppily exited the vehicle.
“Fine by me, Charlie. Just don’t leave it there too long. I share that lot with other shop owners and don’t want them getting mad at me,” said Carter.
Worth pulled the badge from his back pocket and held it up. “Don’t worry about it, Lee. I can take care of the shop owners,” he said before stumbling off to his front door.
Lee grimaced, shook his head in disgust, and sped away without looking back.
After several moments of fumbling with his keys, he unlocked the door, twisted the knob, and stumbled into the house. Worth never saw the masked man who snatched him from behind in a rear chokehold that squeezed the carotid arteries in his neck and restricted the blood flow to his brain. Seconds later he was unconscious, and his limp body was being carried up the stairs to his bedroom.
Charlie Worth wanted to scream, but the thick gag tied tightly around his mouth muffled his cries. He struggled furiously to free his hands and feet, but the restraints that tethered his wrists and ankles to the four bedposts were too strong. Helpless, he laid spread-eagle on his bed, staring up at the skylight and out into the darkness. Someone was typing on his computer in the far corner. “I’ll be right with you,” said a voice.
Worth’s mouth was bone dry, his stomach was aching, and he had what felt like a few small pebbles stuck in his throat. He strained to swallow and closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he recoiled in horror at the sight of a masked man hovering over his bed. Charlie struggled furiously and gasped for air through his nose. The masked intruder waited for him to tire and stop squirming before he sat down on the bed. He grabbed Charlie by the gag and poured a glass of water over his mouth. Most of it spilled down his chin, but just enough got through for him to swallow. The pebbles slid down his throat and into his aching stomach with the others. The intruder placed the glass on the nightstand next to the unlabeled pill bottles and started to speak.
“They say that once you’ve already decided to kill someone you should just do it, that the target should never know what hit them. What’s the use of talking if you’ve already decided they need to die, right? That’s what I’ve always done. But I’m going to make an exception this one time because I want you to know it was me who got you.”
The intruder removed his mask. Worth tried futilely to speak and shook his head rapidly from side to side until the intruder grabbed him by the chin and steadied his head. “No. No, Charlie. You don’t get to speak. You will never speak again,” said Mark.
Worth continued his efforts to escape until he was exhausted. Reluctantly accepting the hopelessness of his situation, his furious struggling gave way to desperate sobbing. Tears streamed down his face.
“I couldn’t let you go thinking you got away with everything. I’m sure I could get a lot more out of you if I had time, but I already know enough about you that I won’t lose any sleep over this. You harassed your partner in Queens until she couldn’t take it anymore and quit her job. Then you killed her and made it look like a suicide, didn’t you? I wonder how many of her family members and friends blame themselves to this day for not being there for her. Then you ended up here and it wasn’t long before you were stirring things up again. You harassed people in the projects just because you could, and you hated it when they replaced you with Luci. So you tried to sabotage her from the very beginning. You played off people’s fears and tried to make it look like everything in town was going to hell in a handbasket. You know what I found in your basement, Charlie? Cans of black and gold spray paint and a stack of different-sized stencils for Latin Kings symbols, plus the outfit you were wearing in the shopkeeper’s video. You painted that graffiti all over town to scare people. Then you stoked the flames by feeding bullshit about Luci to some tabloid website.”
Worth exhaled and his eyes started to roll back in his head until he was nudged in the ribs. “Are the pills starting to kick in, Charlie? Are you tired? That’s what two months’ worth of sleeping pills will do to you. Wake up. I’m not done with you yet. Open your eyes and look at me. You know what else I found down there? A bottle of chloroform and a rag sealed in a zip-lock bag. You tried to kill, Luci. Didn’t you?”
Worth closed his eyes, nodded, and squealed.
“You tried to kill the best thing that’s ever happened to me and make it look like a suicide. You pulled a necklace from a dead little girl’s body and put it in Luci’s hands, hoping people would think she was depressed and couldn’t take the pressure. You’re a psycho, Charlie. You’re a dangerous man. And I cannot let you live.”
Worth’s eyelids fluttered and his breathing became shallow. “I hope you can still hear me, Charlie. When the police come and find you dead, they’ll search the house and find all the evidence they need to corroborate the confessions in your suicide note. So rest assured that after you’re gone, everyone in the world—including your family and whatever friends you had—will know the truth about you. And most of them will be happy you’re dead.”
Landry checked the time on his watch. Satisfied that Worth was gone, he removed the gag and untied the dead man’s wrists and ankles. He took a quick look around to make sure he left nothing behind. Then he went to the computer, clicked SEND, and donned his mask again before disappearing.
* * *
On the other side of town, Lisa Lemon was up late writing an article for the
Valley Insider
when a new message arrived from Officer Charlie Worth. She skimmed the email, leapt to her feet, and paced the floor.
Five minutes later she published a breaking news blog post.
EXCLUSIVE: Confessed Killer Cop Commits Suicide!
Then she called 911 to report the email and verify the story.
Once the authorities had blocked Main Street from traffic, a silent crowd of candle-bearing mourners spilled into the area for the memorial service. Its ranks swelled until the road and sidewalks were filled with thousands of townspeople, their attention oriented toward the powerful public address system on the roof of the Witch Hunt. With the exception of the governor, every person inside the capacity-filled pub was a town resident, and all media were restricted to covering the event from the streets. The politicians and authorities had said their collective piece over the preceding weeks. The featured speaker tonight was teacher, coach, and historian Andy O’Rourke. The man whose actions on Founders Field had earned him the additional title of hero was about to emerge as de facto leader of the town.
With tired eyes and his arm in a sling, Andy stood on the center of the raised hearth in front of the microphone. The crowd had been listening in hopeful silence, desperate for leadership from its own ranks and confident that he could alleviate some of their pain, begin the healing process, and help point the way forward. The blank stares and empty eyes were unlike any he had seen in his previous appearances as featured speaker at the Witch Hunt. Today he saw eyes drained of energy and purpose, anxious for some source of replenishment.
Andy spoke slowly at first, pausing frequently to let his words travel through the loudspeakers to the multitude gathered outside. Without notes he had recited the names of each victim and told heroic stories of others who had fought back, some sacrificing their lives so that others could live. Now, as he worked toward the end of his remarks, he began to gradually quicken his pace and intensity.
“I have always taken pride in the fact that so many of the most important events in our nation’s history started right here in the Bay State, and that the courageous elders of our town played such significant roles in shaping the country. It all started right here on the sacred ground under this hearth, and from here it spread across the continent. The founders of this town and of our great country were prepared to spill their own blood for what they believed in. Deep down they knew they were blazing a new trail for humanity and that eventually the entire world would come to know their names and what they stood for. Now, almost two hundred and fifty years later, the world consistently looks to their creation—America—for leadership.”
Andy paused and winced as he reached for the glass of ice water sitting on a small table next to the microphone. His eyes surveyed the hungry crowd as he adjusted his sling and breathed deeply between sips. So far they had hung on his every word. They had been moved, but they had yet to be reborn. They needed a leader, and anyone within earshot knew Andy could be that leader. There was a resonant, magnetic quality to his words, but the people still needed one final nudge. The outpouring of thoughts and prayers from across the country were not enough. They needed direction and purpose. They needed a local source of strength to rally around. Andy returned the glass to the table with a loud thud and decided to depart from his scripted concluding remarks. He cleared his throat.
“Our town is no stranger to tragedy. Since our earliest days we’ve faced countless threats and challenges. We’ve been battered and beaten by enemies, Mother Nature, and, from time to time, even ourselves. But all these challenges had one major thing in common: none of them could defeat us. None were able to make us quit and give up. My friends, we’ve been knocked down before, but each and every time we got right back up and kept marching forward.”
Andy pointed toward the front door of the Witch Hunt and unleashed the signature boom in his voice to which the town was now accustomed. “There have been a handful of mass shootings, ambushes on police, and bombings in small towns across the country since the cowardly attacks on our Independence Day celebration,” he intoned. The crowd, jolted by the change in the tone and volume of his voice, leaned forward attentively. Andy removed the cordless microphone from the stand and paced to the edge of the hearth. “But I part ways with the conventional wisdom that this is simply the new normal. I’m sorry, but I just can’t accept that defeatist line of reasoning—not after being born and raised in this town.”
“That’s right!” yelled a woman standing in the back of the room, followed by a wave of nodding heads in the crowd.
“Wanton violence, terrorism, and the fear they sow are not things I’m prepared to simply live with. Nor can we bury our heads in the sand and pretend they don’t exist. They do. And you can bet they will return to our town in some way, shape, or form.” Andy walked to the other side of the hearth and directed his words toward several of the decorated police officers and firemen, wearing full dress uniforms and white gloves. “We are blessed to have some of the finest first responders in the Bay State,” he declared. “But they can’t do it all. And they can’t do it alone. They need our help.”
O’Rourke stepped off the hearth, descended the portable wooden stairs, and paced slowly down the center aisle toward the front door, his microphone held firm in his good hand. “So let’s each pledge to become more self-reliant, more resilient, and capable of responding when evil decides to rear its ugly head again. This town is no stranger to adversity. And we have never been beaten. We always get back up stronger than before. That strength doesn’t come from the size or makeup of our population or the physical barriers we build. No, sir. We draw our strength from the values and ideals set forth by the founders of our town and this great country—men and women who valued freedom enough to spill their blood in its defense and who refused to live in fear.”
Andy O’Rourke stood in the doorway of the Witch Hunt, looking out over a sea of vulnerable, candle-bearing townspeople. “My friends, evil will be back. It will return. We can’t control that. But we do have a choice. We can be ready or we can simply be afraid. I vote for the former. Who’s with me?”
Senator McDermott exited the SUV and answered one quick question from a reporter waiting in front of her building. “No, I have not committed to speaking at that event. That’s just a rumor. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of reading to do tonight.” She entered the building and rode the elevator up to her fifth-floor apartment.
“In for the night, Senator?” asked the evening security supervisor as he opened the apartment door.
“Yes, no visitors. No calls. No nothing.”
Once inside, she dropped her things, turned to face the young man, and gave him a tired smile. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“It’s Jonathan, ma’am. Is something wrong?”
“No. But you’ve been here every night for over a week and I’ve never actually spoken with you. You must think I’m a real jerk,” she said.
“No, ma’am. Not at all. My job is to—”
She waved her hand and cut him off. “Your job is to protect me. I know that, Jonathan. And I know it may not seem like it, but I appreciate what you do. Are you married? Kids?”
“Yes, ma’am. Both. We have a six-month-old baby girl.”
“What’s her name?”
“Katie, ma’am,” he answered proudly.
“Katie. Cute name. Do you get to spend much time with her?”
“All day, ma’am. So my wife can catch up on sleep. Katie came out screaming and hasn’t stopped since. She’s feisty.”
“So if you’re here all night and with the baby all day, when do you get to sleep?” she asked.
“I catch catnaps here and there.”
“It’ll get better, Jonathan. All my babies were feisty too.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She secured the deadbolt, leaned back against the door, and took several deep breaths.
All my babies.
McDermott glanced at the stack of mail and briefing papers on the kitchen counter, shook her head, and spoke out loud in the empty apartment. “You can wait. Shower time.”
McDermott emerged from the bedroom twenty minutes later wearing white cargo shorts and a black t-shirt. She poured a glass of red wine and flipped through the stacks of paperwork that covered most of the kitchen counter space. Connecticut economic reports. Board of Education test results. Speaking invitations and pleas for support from various nonprofit organizations. An official-looking envelope exclaiming, “Open immediately! Lois Sumner McDermott, you don’t want to miss this opportunity!” found its way into the trash.
Nice try, guys, but I dropped the Sumner a long time ago.
She settled on the most recent statistics on gun violence and headed for her evening reading spot on the couch near the balcony. A flexible reading lamp hovered overhead like the boom microphones that seemed to follow her everywhere. The sliding glass door was open and an unseasonably cool breeze gently blew the drapes. Two pages into the report, she was startled by a voice from outside.
“Good evening, Senator.”
Surprised, she rose to her feet and dropped the papers on the coffee table.
“Jesus! You scared the heck out of me. I thought I had made myself clear to your boss, Jonathan. No security inside the apartment once I’m in for the night.”
“It’s not Jonathan, Senator,” the man answered after several seconds of heavy silence.
McDermott shielded her eyes from her bright reading lamp and focused on the silhouette in the doorway. “Well, he should have passed those instructions along to the entire security detail. So thanks for your help, but I can take it from here. Now please show yourself out. I have a lot of work to do this evening,” she said in a firm tone before taking a quick sip of wine.
“I’m not part of your detail, Senator.”
Senator McDermott froze. There was no sound other than those of her own breath and the plastic tips of the balcony curtain drawstrings gently tapping against the glass in the breeze. Her pulse quickened and she turned the lamp away from her eyes to get a better look at the stranger.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
He took several relaxed steps inside the apartment and stopped. The presence of an uninvited man in her apartment at night should have been cause for panic, but this man’s tone and physical demeanor, as he stood casually with his hands in his pockets, felt strangely disarming, eerie yet inexplicably familiar.
Why am I not screaming and running for the door?
“You know who I am,” he answered.
“I’m going to ask you one more time. Tell me who you are, right now.”
“I already told you, Senator. You already know who I am,” he said, slowly drifting to the far side of the room and flipping the overhead light switch to fully illuminate himself. “Look closely.”
The stranger took several gentle steps across the soft white carpet to the edge of the coffee table. McDermott looked deep into the man’s eyes and squinted. She curiously tilted her head to the side and focused her tunnel vision on the man’s face. Her heart raced and her arms and legs went numb, but she did not yet understand why. Then he flashed a warm, peculiar smile, and memories from the past came roaring back like a freight train.
“Oh my God … is that … it can’t be … is that really you?” she whispered.
The wine glass slipped from her grasp and she brought both hands to her mouth.
“Mark?”