Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel

by Miller, Randall H

  “The Valley Insider is a digital rag, Sarge. Lisa Lemon is a joke. I’ve heard it all before and it doesn’t bother or scare me.”

  “Bullshit. This would bother anyone, but that doesn’t really matter. It bothers me and that’s enough. There are other comments here that decorum precludes me from reading out loud. Listen, I’m not coddling you. I’m not treating you any differently because you’re a woman – I never have. I’m simply assessing potential threats and I don’t like what I see. Speaking of which, have you seen this picture yet?”

  He turned the monitor toward Luci and she leaned forward.

  “Or how about this other one?”

  Bewildered, she leaned back and sank into the chair.

  “Obviously you haven’t. Let’s talk about these, Luci. This first one was obviously taken at the gym. You’re working up a pretty good sweat, by the way. I wish a few of the other guys would follow your example. But this second one, if I’m not mistaken, is you leaving your house.”

  When he had finished he sat back and waited for a response. It took her several moments to find the right words.

  “Okay, I get it. I understand. I overreacted to losing the graffiti case and maybe I should pay more attention to some of this other stuff. I think it’s all mostly noise … but I’ll take it seriously and be careful.”

  “That’s all I’m asking. This is a dangerous job to begin with, and we all knew that coming into it. But this other stuff is very different from the day-to-day risks. You always have to watch your back, but right now you need to watch it even closer. That is all.”

  Luci stood up and opened the door.

  “One more thing, Luci. This is by any measure one of the best departments in the state, and you are without a doubt one of my most valuable players. And that is the only reason I didn’t scoop you up and throw you out that window on your head when you burst into my office.”

  “Sarge, I—”

  He cut her off with a wave of the hand.

  “Don’t sweat it. Everybody deserves a freebie. That was yours.”

  Fifty-four

  Aside from occasional words of encouragement, Kenny fed Mr. Harrington his dinner in silence. The old man chewed, swallowed, and occasionally spit out his food with his eyes fixed out the window. He sometimes grunted, but he had not looked directly at his son in almost a week. Kenny felt helpless as he watched his father dissolve more and more each day. Kenny was starting to lose his mind too.

  After a brief sponge bath and a sleeping pill mixed in with his other medicines, he put his father to bed and waited for him to drift off to sleep before applying the restraints. He hated tying his father to the bed, but he couldn’t risk having him wander off again. It wasn’t punishment, Kenny constantly reminded himself. It was safety.

  Kenny locked all the doors and closed the drapes before sitting down at his computer and logging in. He pulled up an encrypted messaging program and clicked on the new message icon.

  TO: OrcSlayer

  FROM: Hobbit

  MESSAGE: have job for you

  His message traveled instantly through the maze of the dark web and popped up on the screen of someone he knew only by code name and quality of service. That person’s true identity was as much a mystery as his own.

  Kenny went to the kitchen and poured himself a small snifter of brandy. By the time he returned to his seat, he had a reply.

  OrcSlayer: anything for you

  Good.

  He took a sip of brandy and waited a few minutes before replying, as appearing too eager could jack up the price.

  Hobbit: dig for something embarrassing

  OrcSlayer: no prob, subject?

  Hobbit: charlie worth, former nypd, queens

  OrcSlayer: priority?

  Hobbit: no rush

  Kenny closed the secure chat box, held the snifter to his nose, and was inhaling slowly and deeply as the doorbell rang. Startled, he logged out and tiptoed to the family room’s bay window, through which he peeked at the front porch through a small hole in the blinds, the brandy snifter still in his hand.

  Mark Landry waved at him from the landing with a smile on his face.

  “Hi, Kenny, it’s just me.”

  “Come on in,” said Kenny, opening the door.

  Landry hadn’t been in the Harringtons’ house for well over twenty years, but it was exactly how he had remembered it. And although outdated, each and every facet had been meticulously maintained, like a living museum of a past era.

  “I’m sorry for coming over this late, but I saw the light on. Would you prefer I come back tomorrow? I would have called, but I couldn’t find the number.”

  “You’re already here, Mark. What’s up?” replied Kenny as he leaned back against the foyer wall and took a slow, tiny sip of brandy.

  This was a version of Kenny that Mark had not seen before—confident with a bit of a swagger. Landry figured it was either the booze or the home-court advantage. Maybe both.

  “I’m doing a bunch of work on the house, but I draw the line at electrical work because I’m afraid I’ll fry myself. Do you know a decent electrician in town who won’t want my firstborn?”

  “Yeah, sure. I think I have his card on my refrigerator. Follow me.”

  Mark remained in the foyer until Kenny noticed he wasn’t coming and beckoned again.

  “Come into the kitchen, Mark. Can I offer you a drink?”

  “No, thanks. I can’t stay long. I’m trying to get the house in order, and Magnum’s on in a few minutes.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Kenny scanned the cards and notes on the refrigerator, then turned and rummaged through the drawer next to the kitchen sink.

  “How’s your father doing?”

  Kenny made no response and continued his search.

  “Here it is,” Kenny said, holding up a faded business card with bent corners. “This guy is decent, but be sure to get an estimate up front or he might get creative on you.”

  He handed the card to his neighbor.

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Can I ask you a question, Mark?”

  “Sure.”

  Kenny walked to the other end of the kitchen and topped off his drink.

  “Are you still in the military?” he asked.

  “Yeah, kind of. But that may be over soon. I’m thinking of retiring and settling down right here next door to you, bro.”

  Mark had yet to build a solid rapport with Kenny since his return, and the use of “bro” was probably a bit much. Kenny was awkward, but he certainly wasn’t stupid or gullible.

  “Are you a Delta operator?” Kenny asked out of the blue.

  Landry was taken aback by the question but answered as matter-of-factly as he could.

  “No. I’m not a Delta operator, Kenny.”

  “SEAL?”

  “No.”

  “Special Forces?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you—”

  Mark cut him off.

  “Let me stop you before you go through every unit in JSOC, Kenny. The answer is no. My job is not nearly as exciting as you apparently imagine. But I appreciate the compliments.”

  His neighbor said nothing but gave him a sarcastic look that clearly said, “I know you’re lying.”

  Mark smiled and waved the electrician’s business card in the air.

  “Thanks for this. Before I go, can I ask you a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “What are you up to these days? I know taking care of your father is a full-time job, but what’s your area of expertise? You were so friggin’ smart growing up, I always imagined you’d end up a famous physicist or rocket scientist.”

  Kenny stiffened slightly at the backhanded compliment before answering.

  “I’m a freelance technology consultant. Did a lot of work as a skip-tracer in the early days. Now I do mostly cybersecurity stuff. Nothing too exciting—just like you.”

  They wandered toward the front door
and stepped out onto the front stoop.

  “Sounds interesting,” replied Mark. “What’s a skip-tracer though? Educate me. I have no idea what that is.”

  “Skip-tracers find people. Missing persons, fugitives, deadbeats, criminals, former lovers, childhood friends, bail jumpers, whatever. In the early days of the Web it was pretty lucrative, but that’s changed since so much information is now open-source and relatively easy to find. Regardless, if you know where and how to look, you can still dig up some interesting things these days. But that’s more about connections and relationships.”

  Mark descended the front steps and started down the walkway toward home. But then he turned around before Kenny could go back inside the house.

  “Hey, Kenny, listen. I don’t want to bother you so feel free to say no. But if I gave you the name of someone I was interested in finding, could you help me?”

  “Yeah, but don’t you have the resources through your unexciting job to do something like that?”

  Mark smiled at the sarcasm.

  Not gonna let it go, are you, Kenny?

  “It’s not work-related. I plan on reaching out to some of Agnes’s friends to let them know she’s passed away. Unfortunately, she lost touch with a lot of people. As she got older, she wrote fewer letters and made fewer calls. Her closest friend told me that she got pretty reclusive over the last few years. No news, no TV. She just sat at home by herself and read. Anyway, there’s a woman who she was once very close to when she lived in Watertown, New York. Always said she was like a daughter to her, but they lost touch like twenty years ago. I’d like to find her and let her know about Agnes. I started looking online, but it turns out there are a ton of Lois Sumners out there. Think you can help me out? Is there a standard fee for something like that? I’m not looking for a freebie.”

  Kenny swatted some mosquitoes from the porch light and finished his brandy.

  “Typically, yes. But your money is no good here … bro,” he answered with a genuine smile. He beamed with pride and relished the fact that Mark Landry—some kind of super soldier—needed and apparently trusted him. “Call it a favor. Some day I may ask you for one. Just give me the name and as much detail as you can. I’ll do it when I have time. No worries.”

  Fifty-five

  Mark flipped through the channels and stopped at CNN. Fareed Zakaria was interviewing Senator McDermott.

  You get around, Lady.

  “You ran for office on some pretty specific issues that you are clearly passionate about, but now that you’ve been in office for six months, what has disturbed you the most about the way our government actually works and wages its wars?” Zakaria asked.

  “That’s an easy one, Fareed. Secrecy. There’s a rampant lack of transparency and, in some cases, zero oversight. And that is all intentional. The system is rigged to be this way, the results are devastating, and too many of my colleagues have no desire to change it. It is disheartening when fellow senators avoid my calls and refuse to meet with me. I’ve sat in waiting rooms for hours while watching NRA and defense contractor lobbyists come and go as they please. And it’s the American people and our service members who are paying the price. These policies and procedures are reckless and inevitably self-defeating. They make us all less safe.”

  “What would you change if you could?”

  “I propose nothing short of full transparency and accountability for actions. Yes, I suppose there are occasionally things that might need to be classified and kept secret in the name of national security, but those cases should be exceptionally rare. We are conducting military operations in countless countries around the world. Countless, Fareed. And the last time I checked, the President only had authorization for a small handful.”

  “But aren’t you being at least somewhat naïve about how to fight global networks of extremists? Are we to announce everything that we do in advance so they can adjust their strategies or simply wait in ambush for our forces to arrive?”

  “Of course not, Fareed. But we are also trampling on our constitution. I can’t get too specific, but we currently have organizations within our government with unaccountable leadership, highly trained operators, state-of-the-art weaponry, and carte blanche to conduct missions anywhere and anyhow they see fit. Their budgets dwarf those of very important education and healthcare initiatives. And the things they do—sometimes despicable acts—make them criminals by any definition.”

  “Strong words from a strong woman. Personally, I get the feeling that the country has never been more divided than we are today and that major changes are on the horizon—some of them drastic and perhaps too radical. Almost like the proverbial powder keg waiting for a spark. Do you get that same sense?”

  “We’ve been divided before, Fareed. Remember, the Civil War cost almost a million lives. And—”

  “But that was much more geographic than the divide we have today. North versus South was much more easily defined. Today the divisiveness is less geographic and more ideological, and it can be found in every city and neighborhood, on every street, and even within the same household.”

  “That’s true and it is worrisome. But it also makes me want to dig deeper and work even harder because there’s so much at stake.”

  “Thank you for joining me today, Senator.”

  Mark turned off the television and stared at the ceiling.

  Whose side are you on, lady? It ain’t the Boy Scouts we’re up against.

  His cell phone vibrated on the coffee table just as he was starting to drift off. It was Luci. She never called this late.

  “Hey, what’s up? Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, I was just thinking about you. Figured I’d call to say good night.”

  This is progress.

  “I’m glad you did. Tell me about your day, gorgeous.”

  “You first.”

  He recounted the tasks he had completed around the house and his visit to the Harringtons next door, which reminded him that he needed to call the electrician.

  “Your turn.”

  “Well, things were going great until I made a complete ass out of myself in front of my boss.”

  She shared her excitement about the video and how angry she was when Cromwell took her off the case. Mark laughed out loud when she recounted bursting into his office. But the levity dissipated quickly when the topic turned to her safety.

  “Having a boss who cares about your safety isn’t a bad thing, Luci.”

  “I know that. He was right about passing things off to the detectives and he was right to call it bullshit when I said the comments didn’t bother me. But those pictures take things to an entirely different level and I’m not sure how best to handle it. Making a big deal out of something usually makes it worse.”

  “Well, you could start by doing something different with your hair,” offered Mark.

  “Huh?”

  “And maybe touch up your makeup a little more before leaving the house.”

  “Wait, what the hell did you just say?” she asked, exasperated.

  No response.

  “Mark? Did you just say what I think you said?”

  “Yes. But it’s all just part of my plan to make you mad so I can take you out for dinner tomorrow night and make it up to you. I’m thinking some place nice and quiet. A decent bottle of wine. I’ll pick you up so you don’t have to drive. I’ll listen and show you how much progress I’ve made on my road to domestication. What do you say?”

  The phone was silent for several seconds before she answered.

  “Actually, that does sound kind of nice. And you do have plenty to make up for.”

  “I’ll pick you up at 7:30.”

  “Wait, do you have a driver’s license yet?” she asked.

  “Sweet dreams, Officer Alvarez.”

  He ended the call, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply.

  Don’t screw this up, Landry.

  Fifty-six

  “Open your eyes, Mark.”

  �
��Why? You said to do it blind.”

  “You will,” answered Father Peck. “But first give me the knife, have a seat, and just listen.”

  Mark sat on the cool dungeon floor, caught his breath, and took a drink from his water bottle. The priest sent the knife spinning into the air. They both watched the shiny blade as it rotated and climbed within inches of the ceiling before losing momentum and dropping like a stone into Peck’s waiting hand.

  “Never forget that weapons—all weapons, even guns—are simply extensions of your body,” he lectured as he gracefully flipped and spun the knife, passing it from hand to hand in a fluid dance. “If you don’t have control and awareness of your body, you can’t possibly wield a weapon—or defend yourself against one. You understand that, right?”

  Mark chugged water and wiped his chin with his forearm.

  “Yes. You’ve mentioned that since the beginning. I understand.”

  “Good. Now I want you to understand something else. You see all this flipping, spinning, and dancing I’m doing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s nonsense,” he declared as he closed his eyes and caught the blade behind his back with one hand. “Nonsense that would certainly get you killed in a real battle. It’s useless, Mark.”

  “So how did you get so good at it?” asked the young apprentice.

  “There’s nothing inherently wrong with it, Mark. It’s good to move your body in different ways and to know the weight of the weapon, how it flies, how it feels in your hands in different positions as you try to keep it moving like running water … and how it can cut you if you’re not too careful. Just don’t ever equate that with real battle. I studied formal systems for years until I learned the reality of knife attacks the hard way.”

  “Where did you learn the hard way?”

  “In prison,” answered the priest matter-of-factly. “Stand up and come here, Mark.”

  Mark sat stunned and motionless, his eyes wide.

  “Why were you in prison, Father?”

  “I wasn’t an inmate, Mark. I was a maximum-security chaplain. Now stand up and come here. I want to show you how it really happens.”