Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel

by Miller, Randall H

  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 an
d 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.

  Twenty-three

  Luci entered the playground, closed the chain link fence behind her, and smiled at the chorus of greetings.

  “Luci! Luci’s here!”

  Half a dozen kids almost bowled her over as they gathered around, all vying for her attention.

  “Hola, amiguitos,” she said before a round of hugs, kisses, and high-fives.

  On the other side of the playground, a mother quietly extinguished her cigarette and stomped the butt into the sand with a sandaled foot. A young man casually drained the remaining contents from a can covered by a paper bag and tossed it into the garbage barrel. Several teenage girls left without saying a word.

  Luci surveyed the scene, smiled widely, and gave a casual all-inclusive wave to the remaining adults. Most waved or nodded back; several simply looked away with blank expressions. Walking slowly into the middle of the playground with a gaggle of children in tow, she laughed and continued scanning the area.

  Where are you, Julia?

  As each kid received their precious moment of Luci’s attention, the group of children dwindled to just two: a little girl who hadn’t said a word or let go of Luci’s hand since she arrived, and a little boy attached to her leg like a Koala bear. He held on tight and giggled as Luci limped slowly around the park.

  An old woman spoke softly from her perch on a graffiti-filled bench as the trio passed by.

  “Ella no está aqua, mija.” She’s not here.

  Luci stopped, looked down, and rubbed the little boy’s head.

  “Dónde?” Where? she asked the woman without looking at her.

  “No sé, posiblemente cerca del andén del tren con los otros niños.” I don’t know, maybe down by the train tracks with the other kids.

  Luci reached down, scooped up the little boy, and repositioned him on her hip.

  Gracias, Doña.

  Twenty-four

  Mark finished drying off and tossed the towel into the hamper in the corner of his room. He put on shorts and a t-shirt, retrieved his 9mm from the nightstand, and returned it to his waistband before sitting down comfortably in an old upholstered armchair positioned in the corner of the room.

  With his back straight, feet flat on the floor, and hands resting gently on the armrests, Mark slowly inhaled through his nose until his lungs reached full capacity. Exhaling completely through his mouth, he closed his eyes and allowed his mind to drift. With each successive breath, his heart rate decelerated and the world around him started to dissolve …

  “Stop thinking about your thoughts.”

  “How do you not think about your thoughts? They’re thoughts—that’s what they do,” Mark replied sarcastically.

  “The key to meditation is to not struggle with your thoughts, Mark. Don’t try to fight them, just acknowledge them as they float in and out of your consciousness and continue to breathe deeply,” said Father Peck as he opened a small window, allowing the dense winter air to spill into the church “dungeon.”

  Mark sat upright atop a soft pillow in the middle of the concrete floor. Sweat from the preceding two-hour workout ran down his head in all directions.

  “Fine. But I’ve been trying this for a few weeks and can’t say it’s doing much for me. I’m good for two or three minutes, tops. After that I start to get bored and frustrated. Can we do something else, please? What are we anyway? Are we Buddhists now or something?”

  “No, we’re just humans. And God has given this important gift to all of us, not just Buddhists. Close your eyes again, breathe, and let go completely.”

  Mark rolled his eyes before clenching them shut. Father Peck stood directly behind his student and continued coaching.

  “Breathe in deeply and hold it for a moment. Don’t force anything—just fill your lungs with air, then slowly let them deflate on their own. When you exhale through your mouth, expel all your inner angst, anxiety”—the priest paused to nudge his student between the shoulder blades with his knee—“and your sarcasm with it.”

  Mark suppressed a smile. Father Peck spoke softly as he paced back and forth with his head down and his hands clasped comfortably behind his back.

  “Breathe in and fill your lungs. Feel your chest gently expand. When you’re ready, exhale through your mouth and let go. Feel the floor underneath you dissolve as you lose touch with your physical body. Imagine you are floating on your back in an infinite sea of tranquility. A warm light shines from above. No fears. No worries—only peace and tranquility. You are surrounded by the love of your creator. Tell your muscles to relax and let go. And breathe …”

  As his body started to relax, the tension in Mark’s face slowly began to erode and the soreness from his training soon dissipated.

  “Thoughts will appear. They may be happy, sad, angry, or scary. Simply acknowledge them, but do not struggle with or judge them. Just let them
swim by like colorful tropical fish as you float effortlessly and bask in the warm glow of God’s unconditional love. And breathe …”

  When Mark opened his eyes, Father Peck was seated on the floor directly in front of him with his back against the wall and a stopwatch in his hand.

  “Much better. How do you feel?”

  “Pretty good, actually. Different. How long was that?”

  “Forty-two minutes, Mark. Forty-two minutes.”

  The silence was broken by the soft sound of wind chimes coming from the smartphone in Mark’s lap, indicating that his forty-two minutes of meditation had ended. He opened his eyes and rolled his neck from side to side for several seconds before slapping the armrests with his hands and pulling himself to his feet.

  Time to get unpacked.

  Twenty-five

  When things started to get loud and the boys became unruly, Julia looked at her two best friends and raised her eyebrows.

  Want to leave?

  They knew from experience that it was better to simply depart than to announce their intentions; doing so would just invite unwanted attention and the inevitable “oh, you’re too good to hang out with us” bullshit from the loudmouths in the crowd. So they slipped away quietly and followed the narrow, well-trodden footpath up the hill toward the main road. From there, it was only a five- to ten-minute walk back to the projects.

  When they crested the hill and emerged from the woods, they waited several minutes for a break in the heavy traffic so they could cross the street. A voice from behind them called Julia’s name. She turned and saw Officer Luci Alvarez standing in the door of a small family-owned diner with a cup of coffee in her hand. She shook her head and muttered under her breath.

  Man, what the fuck?

  “Guys, I’ll catch up to you. I just remembered I gotta get some stuff for my grandmother at the pharmacy. Don’t wait. I’m in no rush to get home anyway.”

  Her friends shrugged their shoulders and continued on while Julia turned around and made her way to the diner.