Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel (8 page)

Nineteen

The alarm on Mark’s phone started to chirp and vibrate at 4:45 a.m.

Not today.

He picked up the phone, killed the alarm, and set it back down on the night table, next to the loaded Sig Sauer P226 9mm that was rarely beyond arm’s reach. Then he rolled over and immediately fell back asleep.

His eyes didn’t open again until just before 7 a.m., when the room started to get warm. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he checked his phone for messages, although he knew that Doc and the Family would leave him alone as long as he was on leave. It also meant he would be out of the loop—something he was not accustomed to.

He opened the window and surveyed the backyard and forest that abutted the property—his property. It was mid-May. The grass was green but urgently needed to be cut. Agnes’s multi-colored flowerbeds were in full bloom, and the edge of the forest was a dense wall of browns and greens.

After splashing cold water on his face and brushing his teeth, Mark turned and gazed into the full-length mirror, wearing only a pair of dark blue boxer shorts.

Twenty years and still in one piece. You are one lucky bastard. Take it and move on, or go back to work and keep pressing your luck? That is the question.

He lowered his gaze and settled his eyes on the thin purple scar that ran across his abdomen. The Family’s surgeons had stitched him up as best they could, but Mark thought it still looked like a medieval C-section. Not to mention a constant reminder of darker times.

Berlin. Thanks again for the souvenir, Brother.

After opening the windows to air out the house, he plopped down on the sofa with a bowl of cereal and turned on the news. A drop-dead gorgeous blond woman with piercing blue eyes spoke into the camera from a studio plastered with patriotic themes.

Red, white, blue, and blonde.

“A gunman opened fire at a church picnic in a suburb of Minneapolis yesterday and detonated an explosive device as a group of brave parishioners attempted to overpower him. Fifteen people are dead and dozens of others injured. This is the third such attack on American soil in as many weeks. Is this the new normal? Is the president doing enough to keep Americans safe? We’ll have an all-star panel …”

Mark turned off the TV and finished eating his cereal in the kitchen booth. His phone whistled like a catcall from a construction worker, indicating a text message from Luci. He smiled, picked up his phone, and looked at the screen.

SENDER: Luci

MESSAGE: Google the “valley insider” if bored … c u @ 8.

REPLY: Will do … see you then.

Twenty minutes later, Mark was sprinting up the hill in shorts, running shoes, and a t-shirt loose enough to mask the 9mm strapped tightly to the small of his back. When he reached the top of the hill, he slowed to a trot, turned around, and let gravity do most of the work on the way back down to the house. On the tenth ascent he kept going, turned right at the end of the street, and headed toward downtown.

Twenty

Approximately one hundred miles north in New Hampshire, John McDonough popped two of his wife’s anxiety pills into his mouth and chased them down with a glass of cold water. He closed his eyes and slowly rolled his head from side to side to loosen the muscles in his neck. Then he rolled his shoulders from front to rear a dozen times before moving on to his breathing exercises.

Inhale through the nose—one, two, three, four. Hold it—one, two, three, four. Exhale through the mouth—one, two, three, four. Inhale through the nose—one, two, three, four. Hold it—one, two, three, four. Exhale through the mouth—one, two, three, four. Inhale through the nose …

His heart rate began to settle and his muscles slowly relaxed.

That’s it. Just breathe. You are okay. Everyone is okay. Nothing is happening. It’s all in your head. Just breathe and relax.
Inhale through the nose—one, two, three, four. Hold it—one, two, three, four. Exhale through the mouth—one, two, three, four …

Three quick knocks at the locked bathroom door shattered his focus.

“Honey, are you okay in there? I’m running out for my checkup so I’ll see you later, okay?”

Linda. It’s Linda. It’s only Linda. Calm down. Inhale through the nose …

McDonough bowed his head and his lightheadedness quickly turned to confused terror and tunnel vision. He reached blindly for the sink with his left hand to steady himself, staring at the Smith and Wesson M&P 9mm gripped tightly in his right hand, the barrel pointed at the thin wooden door. He did not remember having drawn the gun from its holster.

Breathe deeply, then answer. Breathe deeply, then answer. Breathe deeply, then answer.

She waited for a response with one palm flat against the door and the other pressed gently against her swollen belly. He put the gun back in its holster and supported himself on the sink with both hands.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just catching up on some reading, Baby. I’m good.”

“Okay. I’ll see you tonight. Be safe out there, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. You too. Let me know how everything went. Sorry I can’t go.”

“Ok, I’ll text you as soon as I’m out.”

McDonough waited in the bathroom as Linda waddled her way down to the garage. She struggled with both hands to get the seat belt around her waist and adjusted the seat as best she could. When she started the car, the baby kicked hard.

“Okay, buddy. Calm down. Momma’s ready to get this over with too. You’ll be out soon enough. Work with me, little man.”

As Linda pulled out of the garage, McDonough inched his way from the upstairs bathroom to the kitchen. Every few steps he paused and stood motionless while his mind raced, stretching a thirty-second walk into several long minutes. From the kitchen, he gazed out the sliding glass door at his soon-to-be-finished deck. Once it was completed, he would immediately move on to another major project. Anything was better than talking.

One day I’m gonna run out of shit to build.

McDonough made one last check of his uniform in the full-length mirror he had installed next to the front door. Then he pulled down the visor on his cap with one hand while measuring two fingers from the bridge of his nose with the other. Standing up straight, he pulled his shoulders back, forced a smile, and walked proudly and confidently to the patrol car parked in the driveway.

Twenty-one

Mark slapped the side of his mailbox as he completed his run and slowed to a brisk walk. The box popped open, revealing a thick stack of mail. With hands on hips, he walked around the cul-de-sac to cool down. It was hotter than he had imagined. The sweat-soaked t-shirt clung to his body. He made a mental note to add a runner’s belt and water bottle next time to help him conceal his handgun.

After cooling down and stretching in the front yard, Mark started for the house, then remembered the mail. As he walked back toward the mailbox, out of the corner of his eye he noticed Kenny and his father walking slowly out their front door. They paused and then cautiously descended the front stairs, one step at a time, as Kenny coached and encouraged his father.

“Okay, Father. Left foot first … good. Now bring your right foot alongside your left … good. Now step off with your left foot just like me … good …”

Kenny helped his father lower his body into a lawn chair and sat down beside him. Mark waved as he walked across the lawn in their direction.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully.

Kenny waved back but said nothing. His father sat motionless, head down, staring at the grass. Kenny awkwardly shook Mark’s extended hand without looking at him.

“Great day to sit outside, eh? Good morning, Mr. Harrington.”

No response.

“Father’s not very talkative today. Okay, Mark?” Kenny offered defensively. 

“Understood. No worries, Kenny. How are you guys doing today?”

Kenny looked at him with an expression that said “
How the hell does it look like we’re doing?
” Mr. Harrington sat motionless in long pants, a tucked-in button-down shirt, and a black ball cap. He could not have dressed himself.

Mark smiled and looked closer at the cap. Embroidered at the top, in thick block letters, were the words “Vietnam Veteran.” In the center sat the red, white, and blue logo of the 82nd Airborne Division. If the word
Vietnam
had been missing, he could easily have been mistaken for a World War II veteran. Mr. Harrington’s days of walking were numbered. Soon Kenny would be assisting him from room to room and from chair to chair.

Scattered on the cap were about half a dozen small pins. Mark’s attention was drawn to the miniature Distinguished Service Cross and Ranger tab.

“Okay. Well, you gentlemen have a good day. I’ll be around if you need me for anything.”

Kenny nodded. Mark bent down, rested his hand on the old man’s knee, and looked deep into his vacant eyes. “Rangers lead the way, Mr. Harrington,” he said.

To Kenny’s surprise, his father raised his head slightly and grunted. The old man breathed heavily and struggled to speak, his eyes focused on Mark’s.

“Yes … Rangers … yes,” he said, managing a faint smile.

Mark smiled back, but the flicker in Mr. Harrington’s eyes lasted only a moment before going out like the pilot light on a gas stove. The blank expression returned and he lowered his eyes to the grass.

Mark stood up and turned his attention to Kenny, who looked as if he was fighting off a panic attack, his eyes focused on the top of the street. A police cruiser was rolling down the hill.

Luci?

He squinted through the sun and sweat to see who was driving, but all he could see was a man’s expressionless face, the eyes masked by an oversized pair of dark-framed sunglasses. The officer stared in their direction as he made a slow, wide U-turn in the cul-de-sac.

“Do they come down here much?” asked Mark.

“Almost never,” Kenny whispered. “Not without a reason.”

The driver finished the turn and continued staring at the three men as the cruiser rolled slower and slower. When the car was nearly at a full stop, the officer acknowledged the three men with a slight raise of his chin before turning away and accelerating back up the hill.

Twenty-two

Amir had flown directly from Istanbul to Montreal. He smiled cheerfully at the other travelers as he waited patiently in the queue for Canadian citizens. The immigration officer who examined his documents had asked few questions but studied his demeanor closely.

“Three years is a long time. What were you doing in Turkey?”

“I started out teaching English but ended up helping to run a shelter for child refugees,” he said, looking her square in the eyes.

“Did you travel anywhere else while you were abroad?”

“No. I was in Istanbul the whole time.”

“Which shelter?” she asked.

“Pardon me?”

“Which shelter did you help run?”

“Saint Lucia’s, not the one by the Blue Mosque, the one closer to the spice bazaar,” he answered.

“Where did you teach English?”

“All over the city. I taught new hires for the Ministry of Tourism,” Amir replied.

“Sounds like a fun job. Why did you switch?”

“We saw a lot of refugees on their way to Europe. Many of them were orphans. I wanted to help. So I did.”

“Welcome home,” she replied with a smile.

Within thirty minutes, Amir had retrieved his suitcase, cleared customs, and was on the street hailing a cab.

“Take me to the sleaziest place you know,” he said with a smile to the Pakistani cab driver.

“Sorry, my friend. I take people where they want to go. Not where I think they want to go.”

Amir stuffed one hundred American dollars through the slit in the glass. “Take me to the sleaziest place you know,” he repeated.

The driver nodded.

Amir recalled what the head of the religious council had told him during his final holy meeting on the Syrian side of the Turkish border: “You may enter the country without incident but still be watched by the Canadian authorities. For two days you must look and act like a young infidel. Indulge like an infidel, but stay vigilant. Such behavior is not a sin, for you are not a Muslim when you commit those acts. Everything you do is in the service of God and therefore pure. But you must ensure that you have not been followed.”

Two days later, he was sitting in the corner of a Saint Catherine’s Street coffee shop with the worst hangover of his life. The two previous nights were a blurry montage of hookers and booze in his cheap motel. He was reminded of his wild, empty college days before Islam entered his life, and he felt sickened. He glanced at his watch. It was 10:30 on the nose.

Where is my facilitator?

At 10:45, an unremarkable man in his mid-thirties entered the shop.

Hello, brother. Is that you? Why have you kept me waiting so long?

The man approached the table and placed his hand on the back of a chair. “Is this seat taken, my friend? My feet are tired from the journey,” he said.

“No,” answered Amir. “I was saving it for someone but it doesn’t look like she is coming. Please, sit down.”

Meaningless chitchat ensued until the tables near them cleared out.

“Listen closely because I am only going to say this once. You are truly a blessed man. Your ultimate destination is Satan’s capital city, Washington, D.C.”

The words were balm to Amir’s impatience.

Yes! I will strike at the birthplace of Satan!

“When do I depart?” he asked.

“Soon. Very soon. You know, warriors are usually tasked with a single mission. But you are tasked with two. The council must think very highly of you to bestow such an honor.”

“Two? D.C. and then what?”

“No. You have it backwards. Later, I will show you the specific location of your next meeting, where you will learn more. For now I will tell you that your first mission is to quickly train local martyrs and send them to their glorious deaths. You will simply plan the missions and put them in motion. You will not participate. You are much too valuable to risk losing. And the glory you will bring to Allah in Washington will light up the skies!”

The facilitator registered Amir’s elation with the news and decided to float an additional benefit. “You know, I met just this morning with another martyr for your mission, and she is as beautiful and pure as the morning dew. Perhaps she will be waiting for you in paradise, eh? Always ready to fulfill your every need.”

Amir cut him off quickly.

“My own needs are irrelevant. I am here in the service of God, not to think of my own interests. What more do you have to share?” he asked.

“Wait ten minutes and meet me across the street in the blue BMW parked next to the subway. From there we will travel directly to your vehicle. The clothes and belongings in your hotel are no longer necessary. Everything you need is in the rental car. Leave this place in ten minutes and do not deviate from my instructions. Soon you will know everything that’s expected of you.”

The facilitator rose, pushed his chair in, and slowly exited into the crowded street.

Whatever mission I am given, I will deliver times ten and earn my place in history. Insha’Allah.