Seventy-four
Mark sat quietly in a chair on the other side of the room as the police union’s chaplain visited with Luci at the house. The chaplain did most of the talking in a soft whisper, but she occasionally stopped to listen to Luci and to glance at the stranger in the room. Luci had indicated that Mark could be privy to the conversation, but she had not introduced him. When they had finished, the chaplain nodded politely to Mark before leaving.
William Lundgren, Jr., had lost a great amount of blood and needed several hours of surgery to close the two holes made by Luci’s 9mm hollow-point bullets, but his vital organs were intact and doctors said he would recover fully, albeit slowly. The drug screen had revealed a cornucopia of prescription and illicit drugs in his system with levels indicative of regular abuse; quite possibly he might not even remember attacking the officer. Fortunately, the video and witnesses removed any doubt as to what had transpired. The young man had left Luci with no choice. Sadly, the video was not released until more than forty-eight hours after the incident, giving the Valley Insider and the national media plenty of time for baseless speculation.
“Of course we won’t know for sure until the investigation is complete, but for all we know, this cop could have specifically gone after the kid because of his father’s outspoken criticism of immigrants and police,” said one news anchor.
“I just don’t understand why police officers across the country are so trigger-happy. This was an unarmed child and she shot him twice in the gut. Of course we haven’t seen the tape yet, but how is it that we can trap wild animals much bigger than adolescent boys without hurting them, but this child needed to be shot twice? Or have we adjusted physical standards so much that female officers who lack the necessary restraining power rely on their guns too much?” another expert opined.
The speculation came to a screeching halt once the video became public, but the damage was done. None of the talking heads bothered to go back and correct the record; they simply cashed their checks and moved on to the next story. Luci was beside herself with grief and post-traumatic depression.
“I shot a kid, Mark. I shot a child,” she said.
“No, you didn’t. He’s not a baby. You protected yourself from a very troubled and violent young man who was going to kill you. He said so himself. People heard it. And the video is very clear that he gave you no choice. You did the only thing you could do. Nobody—I mean, nobody who matters—faults you for that. You did nothing wrong, Luci. I know it doesn’t make things easier on you, but he’s the one who made this happen, not you. You did the right thing.”
“The right thing? Shooting a kid, the right thing? I don’t know about that, Mark. Nothing feels right about this,” she cried into his shirt as she had done for days. “The whole thing fucking sucks!”
William Lundgren, Sr., had arrived at the high school at the same time as the EMTs and firemen. He had to be restrained when he learned what had happened to his son. Officers discovered two handguns when they frisked him. High schools were gun-free zones in Massachusetts. Jail time was unlikely, but the violation would certainly cost him his license and therefore his gun collection. He had initially defended his son and publicly excoriated Luci and the entire department until the video was released. He had not been heard from since.
The investigation was still open, but the remaining steps were bureaucratic in nature. The facts were all in and Officer Alvarez’s actions were deemed appropriate and justified. Even without the video, the ghastly purple and red damage to her throat and windpipe provided strong evidence of Lundgren’s intentions. Regardless, in line with department policy, she was placed on thirty days’ mandatory leave with pay and mandatory counseling. Psychological recovery would not be easy and taking away her life’s work wasn’t going to help.
Luci’s union-appointed lawyer talked her through each step of the process and what to expect, giving her strict instructions to make no statements. He urged her to give the same advice to any living family members. She had not spoken with her mother for several years but placed a call to Colombia and spoke just long enough to pass along the instructions.
If I’ve done nothing wrong, why do I feel so guilty?
Thankfully, things had quieted down outside Luci’s residence. Cromwell had ordered the whole street cordoned off to keep the fleet of media trucks and obnoxious reporters at bay. Most had left town and moved on to the next story as soon as the video was released.
Support had been overwhelming for the first few days as parades of fellow cops and well-wishers visited Luci at home. But eventually the visitors dwindled and she was left alone with her thoughts. Mark worried that things could get much worse before they got better …
He stood up and clapped his hands.
“Okay, Officer Alvarez. It’s time to move. You have to move your body so you don’t slip into a funk, okay? Why don’t we go out for a drive and maybe a bite to eat? You could use the air,” he said.
She shook her head. “My face has been plastered everywhere. I’m not like you, Mark. I’m not anonymous. When I do my job—right or wrong—everybody knows it. I don’t want to see anybody and I sure as hell don’t want to hear what anyone has to say—especially the congratulators. For God’s sake, I could have killed that kid,” she sobbed.
“Okay, okay. I have to go to the house to take care of a few things, but I promise I’ll be right back, okay?”
“I’m not a child, Mark. I can stay at home by myself without a babysitter.”
He wanted to speak but decided against it. He kissed her gently on the head and left her home alone.
Seventy-five
King Heavy’s days as a Latin King had been over since the moment he decided to steal from the nation. The Supreme Inca, King C., was not stupid. If he hadn’t figured it out by now, he would soon enough, and then he’d have no choice but to issue a T.O.S. order—find King Heavy and Terminate on Sight. If he didn’t, the rest of the Supreme Council would smell weakness and he’d have a civil war on his hands. Hector was far beyond the point of no return.
He pulled up his pants and returned to the flimsy card table to finish counting the money while his girlfriend Lourdes cleaned up in the bathroom.
“Baby, I told you not to come inside me. I don’t need no more babies. Why don’t you ever listen to me?” asked Lourdes from the bathroom.
He ignored her and continued counting the large stacks of cash spread out in front of him.
Seventeen thousand. Eighteen thousand. Nineteen...
“Did you hear me? Hector, did you hear me? I asked you a question.”
He tossed a small baggy of heroin in her direction without looking and continued counting but then lost his place. “Yeah, I fucking heard you but I’m busy right now. Can you just shut up until I’m finished? This is for us, baby. This is our future right here. I’m gonna double this shit. Add that to the rest of what we got and we’ll be set for a long time. But you gotta let me work.”
She was already snorting by the time he completed his sentence.
When he had finished counting the cash, he organized it into bundles and stacked them neatly in a red backpack. A loaded Glock 17 9mm with a round in the chamber occupied the front compartment.
Pulling the cheap curtains open just enough to peer out the second-story window onto the street below, he saw nothing to cause alarm. Two schoolchildren with backpacks and lunchboxes stepped over a junkie who had collapsed on the sidewalk. The occasional car passed by. Loud music could be heard from several directions.
I’ll switch shitholes again tonight just in case.
“Let’s go through this one more time so we’re absolutely clear on what you need to do tonight,” Hector said, turning to Lourdes who sat on the edge of the bed with her eyes closed.
He crossed the room, kneeled down in front of her, and slapped her firmly across the face. “Listen up, Lourdes! Pay attention. This is important, okay? Get your shit together.”
“I’m listening, Hecto
r. Stop hitting me!” she exclaimed, snapping out of her drug-induced funk. “Just stop hitting me. I’m here. I’m listening. What?”
“Let’s go through it one more time. You’ll be on the balcony with one of the gringos and I’ll be with the car on the street below. Once they put the stuff in my trunk, I’ll give you the sign so you know to give him the money. After that, I’ll drive away and you get the hell out of there. Don’t go straight home, though. Take your time and make sure there ain’t nobody following you. When you get home, stay there until you hear from me. It’ll be at least a few days, maybe even a week or two, but just sit tight and don’t talk to nobody. When I can, I’ll let you know where I am so you can bring me my shit, right?”
“I ain’t stupid, Hector. I know what to do.”
He raised his hand to slap her again but quickly pulled it back. He still needed her.
“Remember, there’s three bags of money inside the wall in your bathroom, but all you gotta do is hit it with a hammer a little bit and that shitty drywall will come off easy. You bring those bags to me and we disappear together, baby. This is what we’ve always wanted and it’s almost here—just a little bit of business left to do. But I need you to keep your shit together and focus. You want this, don’t you?”
She nodded drowsily.
“Yeah, but I want some respect too, Hector. Why you always gotta be treating me like this? When you’re not fucking me, you’re hitting me. I’ve never met any of your friends or family. You’ve never taken me out anywhere, like you’re ashamed of me or something. I love you, Heavy. But I gotta know things are gonna be different when all this is done. It’s like you’re using me. And what are they gonna be putting in your trunk anyway?”
“I ain’t gonna tell you that, because I want to protect you, baby. You see what I’m saying? Everything I’m doing is for us, but you gotta trust me. And I promise things will be better when this is all done. Less stress, right? It’s the stress that’s making me do that shit to you—it ain’t me, baby. If I didn’t respect you, why would I trust you with some of my money?”
He reached for the baggy of cocaine in his pocket, used a matchstick to scoop out a line, and held it up to her nostril. She sniffed quick and hard. The same ritual was repeated with the other nostril. After a few moments, her eyes rolled back in her head and Hector’s smile turned to a psychopathic scowl.
“You know I respect you, baby. Let me show you how much.”
Hector rose to his feet and slowly reached for the button at the top of his pants.
Seventy-six
“I always knew the kid was a loser like his old man, but I never thought for a second he had that in him,” remarked Andy as he threw another bag of fertilizer into his cart. “I’m so glad she’s okay.”
Mark walked down the hardware store aisle next to his friend and thought out loud.
“I’m worried about her. She can’t compartmentalize things. She just keeps playing the highlight reel over and over in her head and second-guessing herself, and she won’t leave the house. It’s a recipe for disaster.”
“I can only imagine. The kid gave her no choice, but that doesn’t make it any easier to pull the trigger. What about you? How do you get past it after all these years? Can’t you share some of that stuff with her so she has something to relate to?” asked Andy.
“Not really. In my line of work, we serve and protect a little differently. And she thinks I’m bulletproof anyway. So I just listen, but that makes me feel useless.”
“So you’re not bulletproof?”
“No. Definitely not.”
Both men paid for their purchases and left the store.
“I don’t know what to do. I guess wait it out, but it kills me to see her like this,” Mark shared.
“I know it does. Just give her some time. I’ve told you before, Luci is an extraordinary woman. She’ll figure it out. Here’s the thing too—I don’t know a whole lot about your career, but I’m guessing you’ve never had to stay around very long after pulling the trigger. That makes compartmentalizing a little easier, right?”
Mark was taken aback at the perceptive observation and nodded in agreement. “That’s true. You’re right. She just needs time.”
“And if she’s up for getting out of the house tomorrow, bring her to my Veterans Salute at Founders Field. I promise it’ll be an event to remember,” Andy offered as they parted.
Seventy-seven
Senator McDermott shook with anxiety. “Who do you think is sending me this stuff?” she asked.
“No idea,” Meghan answered as she paused the video. “But whoever it is, they’re risking their life.”
This time the envelope contained a single thumb drive with undated video of an interrogation. The interrogator was masked and the lighting was poor, but the sheer brutality of the scene was painfully clear—vicious torture by any definition. The audio dropped in and out of the video. When it was audible, two men spoke mostly in English with occasional exchanges in German, all muffled and difficult to follow.
“This is over the top,” declared Meghan. “I feel like I’m going to be sick. What are we going to do with this?”
The Senator paced the family room. “Do with what? No note. No explanation. We don’t even know what this is. Who are these men? Where are they from? Where did this take place? We can’t even tell what they’re talking about. It looks real to me but …”
“It looks real? For God’s sake, he’s missing an ear and bleeding like mad! He’s missing a fucking ear!” exclaimed Meghan.
“I can see that, Meghan, but we don’t know anything about this. Someone could be setting us up. Let’s say we share this—then what? How many questions would we be able to answer?”
“None,” Meghan uttered. “I say we move and don’t tell anyone where we live. Can’t you get us into the witness protection program or something?”
Senator McDermott pulled the thumb drive from her laptop. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do—nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“This is going into my safe and neither of us will mention it to anyone. We do nothing. If the person who sent it wants to come forward and explain things, fine. If not, we stay focused and just keep doing our work. Someone is either trying to do me a huge favor or sabotage me, and I’m not going to waste time trying to figure out which it is.”
Seventy-eight
After Amir had ordered his warriors to bed and locked the door, he returned to the kitchen and closed his eyes in frustration. He breathed deeply and tried to separate himself from the worldly stress of the holy mission. Three warriors with known fates slept silently in the next room while their leader reviewed the details.
Twenty-four hours. It will all be over in twenty-four hours.
Would the truck be available? Would they have the nerve at the moment of truth? Would the weapons fire? Could they shift to knives if the guns malfunctioned? Would they execute the mission with sufficient brutality and viciousness, completely devoid of mercy and compassion for the infidels? Would they eviscerate the enemy when given the chance, or would they fold and run as many believers had done in the Levant? And what about the girl? Would she fulfill her role?
Too many unknowns with these amateurs. Too little time.
The warrior removed his shirt, socks, and shoes and made ablutions before approaching the makeshift prayer rug. With his forehead pressed vulnerably against the floor, he recalled Surah 3:151 of the Koran: “Soon shall we cast terror into the hearts of the unbelievers …”
One more sunset. One more sunrise.
Seventy-nine
Mark toweled off after his shower, quietly put on his workout clothes, and laced up his running shoes.
“Why do you shower before you work out?” asked Luci.
“Sorry, did I wake you? I shower because it warms up my muscles. Getting old, I guess, and it’s about three miles each way to Founders Field,” he said as he kissed her on the forehead and sat next to her on the bed.
She smiled faintly and closed her eyes again. “Three and two-tenths. Enjoy your run; I’m going back to sleep for a few more hours.”
Mark glanced at his watch; it said 10 a.m. “Understood, you got to bed pretty late and tossed and turned. But later today we need to get you up and moving—preferably outside. You can’t stay inside for the rest of your life. You need to start going out and getting back to normal, okay? Okay, Luci?”
No response. He kissed her on the forehead again and headed outside. Luci opened her eyes and watched him leave the bedroom. She started to sob softly.
Back to normal? Mark. I’m dying inside.
Eighty
Mark jogged around the police barriers and slowed his run to a brisk walk with his hands on his hips. Hundreds of townspeople mingled in a sea of red, white, and blue in celebration of American independence. Flags waved in the gentle breeze, a five-piece band played patriotic songs, and children laughed and played in the grass. It was a peaceful and heartwarming sight, but Mark’s mind was stuck on Luci.
Don’t kid yourself—she’s getting worse.
He weaved his way through the crowd and headed for the only permanent structure on Founders Field: a square brick building that resembled a highway rest area. The row of port-a-potties outside made the bathroom line inside the building short. Mark relieved himself, splashed cold water on his face, and headed back outside to locate Andy.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Independence Day Veterans Salute will begin in fifteen minutes on the stage at the far end of the field. Please join us in recognizing our hometown heroes dating back to World War II,” said a familiar voice over the loudspeaker.
Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel Page 21
