Despite the cold, he broke out in a sweat. It stung his eyes. More hands joined the ones on his arms, and he was shoved up the ramp. Finally, the chain went slack and the hands pushed down on his shoulders, urging him to sit. The trembling ceased as exhaustion stole his energy.
Hours seemed to crawl by, but he had no real clue to the passage of time. His ears popped, so he knew that the plane was in the air. His stomach rumbled. When was the last time he’d eaten? Breakfast must have been hours ago.
To add to his misery, nature came calling. He squirmed, trying to ease the discomfort of a full bladder. Just when he thought he’d embarrass himself, hands yanked him to his feet and led him twenty steps away. He didn’t know why he began counting the steps, but it gave him a feeling of control to have some measure of space.
His hands were freed of the mitts and the earphones lifted.
“If you gotta take a leak, now’s the time.”
Mark’s face burned, but he hastened to relieve himself.
Afterwards, someone squirted what smelled like hand sanitizer into his palm. How thoughtful. At least they were being hygienic. Then his hands were wrapped around a cold object. Startled, he almost dropped it before realizing it was a cup. Wary of what it might contain, he felt for the rim and raised it, taking a tiny sip. Water. Cold, blessed water. He guzzled, afraid it would be taken away before he finished. When no more poured into his mouth, he lowered the cup and hoped in vain for more.
It was twenty steps back to his seat. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he woke up with a start. His heart thundered in his ears.
The vibration from the plane had ceased. They must have landed. Fear of the unknown rose in him. It was bad in the FBI lock-up, but he had a feeling that where he was going would be infinitely worse.
Mark put one foot in front of the other. He didn’t bother counting the steps this time. It wouldn’t matter. The walk wasn’t long, and soon he sat in what he assumed, from the vibrations, to be another vehicle. After a time the vibrating stopped and he was once again forced to walk, this time for longer. He shuffled along and stopped when the hands on his arms tightened and tugged. Fingers brushed the sides of his head, as the earphones were removed.
The rush of air on his eardrums and the sudden return of sound almost hurt. Wherever he was, it was quiet, and from the echo of the guards’ shoes on the floor, it sounded like another cell.
The goggles came off, and Mark squinted, blinking at the harsh light. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. It was a cell, but one even smaller and more stark than the previous one. Three guards stood in the room with him. Two others remained just outside the cell door. One took the mitts off Mark’s hands, and then removed the chains and shackles on his legs. Another took Mark’s shoes.
“Stand here until the door shuts, and then put your hands through the slot,” said the guard who had taken his shoes, as he pointed towards the door. “Then, put on those clothes over there, and put the other clothes through the slot as well.” The man looked Mark in the eye. “You have three minutes. Don’t make us come in to help you.”
Mark nodded. The guards left the room, and the door clanked shut. He shuddered at the sound, then went to the slot and put his hands through. The cuffs came off and his hands began to tingle as blood flow increased. He hadn’t realized how tight the manacles had been until they were gone. As quickly as he could, he changed into the orange t-shirt and baggy pants. A number was stenciled across his chest. His number.
Gathering the dirty clothes, he shoved them through the opening. Nobody came in to help him, so he must have met the time requirements. The bed jutted out from a wall, if it could be called a bed. A thin mattress covered a simple metal shelf; at the foot of the bed was a folded blanket.
He sat on the shelf and rubbed his wrists. So, this was it. He glanced at the steel toilet and tiny sink. Other than the bed, that’s all there was.
Shivering, he took the rough blanket and pulled it around his shoulders. What would happen to him now? Thirst hit him but his body felt paralyzed and he remained on the edge of the bed.
He didn’t know how long he sat. Nothing in the cell changed, the light stayed just as bright, and no sounds penetrated the thick walls. If they kept him here too long, he would lose his mind. He needed color. The photographer in him already missed framing shots in his mind. It was second nature to him, even when he didn’t carry a camera. But here, there was nothing. No shadows, no colors. Just white walls, a dirty gray floor, and dull steel fixtures. Only the orange of his clothing broke up the monotony.
After a while, his stomach growled, and his thirst became over-powering. He shook off his lethargy, got up, and drank from the faucet. Finished, he splashed his face and worked the water up into his hair. He felt grimy and scrubbed his fingers into his scalp and across the back of his neck. The water wasn’t warm but it still felt good. Since he had no towel, he swiped his face along his shoulder and pulled his shirt up, using it to dry off.
Afterwards, he felt a little more human, but the beginnings of a headache tightened the muscles down his neck. Mark groaned and curled up on the bed, pulling the blanket over his shoulders. Numb with fatigue and overwhelmed with the situation, he simply stared at the wall.
The clink of the slot opening woke him some time later. A foam tray slid into the room. Mark swung his feet off the bed and hurried to it. The plate held a casserole of some sort. A thick sauce held bits of chicken, peas, and egg noodles together in clumps. He sniffed, but it gave off very little scent. A carton of milk, lukewarm, a dry biscuit and rubbery gelatin completed the meal. It wasn’t haute cuisine, but it was edible and he was hungry.
Not long after he had finished, the slot opened and a voice commanded that he send the tray back out. He obeyed and then sat again on the bed, at a loss as to what to do next.
When he was a kid and did something wrong, he’d be sent to his room. It was the worst punishment imaginable. No freedom to play outside. No running through fields or catching frogs. Just four walls. At least he’d had windows and books, and his parents usually relented after an hour or two. Especially his mom. He caught his breath at the sharp ache the memory caused. It spread from his chest to his throat and formed a lump. His lawyer had promised to contact them and fill them in on what was going on. This would kill them. He had hoped to make his dad proud of him. Instead, he was stuck in prison.
Mark tried to swallow the lump but it hurt too much. His dad had been right. If he had never picked up a camera, he wouldn’t be in this mess now. He shook his head. It wasn’t just any camera though. It was the antique one. If only he hadn’t spotted the camera in the bazaar. The pain in his chest intensified and he closed his eyes and took slow, deep breaths. If only he had passed that stall. If only he had ignored the vendor, he would be home right this minute. If only.
He lay back and clasped his hands behind his head, focusing on the ceiling, but seeing the dusty marketplace at the base of an ancient citadel. Mark had taken some shots of the impressive structure, and after the light faded, he’d wandered into the bazaar and bought some fruit. As he ate, he browsed the stalls. One sold gorgeous scarves and Mark purchased one for his mom. Another vendor had tables laden with intricately carved wooden items and so for his dad, he bought an ingenious collapsible wooden bowl. His father liked working with wood and would appreciate the craftsmanship. Mark almost bypassed the vendor selling the cameras; it was getting late and his arms were already full.
At first glance, he’d dismissed the cameras as pure junk. Most were so old, he doubted that they worked any more, but one caught his eye. As he held it, he felt a shock in his hands, as if he’d touched a live wire. He jumped, nearly dropping the camera as he thrust it away. Mark back-pedaled a few steps. His fingers tingled and he wiped them on his jeans, but he couldn’t leave the camera alone. He had to pick it up again. This time, instead of a shock, it warmed his palms and gave a charged hum.
Turning to the vendor, he asked if it worked, but
the vendor just shrugged. Mark didn’t know if that meant the man wasn’t sure if it worked, or he just didn’t understand the question. Mark fiddled with the camera, held it up and framed a shot in the viewfinder. The hum felt good in his hands. Even if it didn’t work, cleaned up a bit, it would look good in his studio. He had to have it. Curious about its history, he tried to find out how the vendor had acquired it, but the man only smiled and shook his head. The price was steeper than he expected, but Mark had paid without even trying to barter.
Restless, Mark sat up and paced the cell. It was five steps lengthwise, and when he stood in the middle of the cell, and stretched his arms out at his sides, he could touch each wall with his fingertips. He remembered reading that a person’s arm span correlated with their height. He was six-foot two, so he guessed that the width was about six feet.
A smothering sensation clawed at his throat, and he tugged his t-shirt collar as he eyed the walls. Flat and white with no shadows, they seemed to close in, ready to crush him.
He closed his eyes and tried to quell the rising panic. Leaning against the cold wall, he slid down until he sat with his knees bent; elbows propped against his thighs and cradled his head. Swallowing rising nausea, he fought to get a grip.
The silence was absolute and deafening. He hummed, not sure what song it was and not caring. It broke the stillness. Mark let his head droop and intertwined his fingers on the back of his neck. The memories of the days after he returned home from Afghanistan flowed into the vacuum created by the isolation.
He hadn’t trusted anyone else to clean out the camera, so he had done it himself, making sure that no grains of sand remained in the body. Mark massaged the muscles of his neck and smiled when he recalled his excitement of loading the camera with film for the first time. He had spent the whole day down at the lake front shooting pictures. Nothing was safe from his shutter. He snapped skaters, dogs catching Frisbees, sun-bathers, the skyline and dozens of other things.
Mark sighed. What a great day that had been. If he closed his eyes, he could almost smell the fresh cut grass mixed with car exhaust and topped with a faint fishy odor from the damp sand. He remembered lying down and taking a picture straight up into a tree. The sun had shone through the branches creating a great light and dark contrast on the rough bark.
That night he had developed his film, eager to see how the camera performed. Most of the shots were junk, but a few came out well and he had been happy. One shot had puzzled him though. He couldn’t recall taking that picture and he would certainly have remembered if he had. A small child lay on the sand, her hair plastered to her head. A man bent over her blowing into her mouth and a woman appeared to be doing chest compressions.
He shrugged it off as being some kind of test picture on the film. That night, he’d dreamed of a child drowning, dying on a beach. The child in the photo. It had been so vivid, so real, he had recalled even the smallest details. The dream had stayed with him all that next day, and he stared at the picture, wondering about the little girl. Mark was sure it had to have been a still from an old movie. But no matter how hard he had tried, he could not erase the stark scene from his mind. Even the scent of the beach had lingered in the morning. He felt silly, but after doing two photo shoots that day, he had gone back to the same beach from the day before. Somehow, he knew it was that beach.
Picture in hand, he had walked the beach and even thought about asking the lifeguards if they had been involved in a rescue of the child, but they were busy watching the swimmers. Mark would always recall the feeling he’d had at that moment. It was a feeling of anxiety and foreboding. Uneasy, he had paced the packed sand at the edge of the beach, sidestepping toddlers and darting children. He had searched the waves, not really knowing what he searched for but feeling compelled to continue. For a half hour, he walked the shore. He had ignored the glares from some parents even though he knew his behavior was making them nervous. He was helpless to stop.
Then, it happened. He heard a woman scream, and whirling, he saw lifeguards rush towards the shore and long minutes later, the little girl was hauled in, limp and blue. Mark had backed away while every hair on the back of his neck stood on end. On the way to his Jeep, he had sunk to his knees and vomited on a sand dune.
Mark had ignored the camera after that, but curiosity picked at his resolve, and two weeks later, he took it down from the shelf in his studio. After a thorough examination, which showed nothing but normal wear and tear on a fifty-year old camera, he held it to his eye. Just to prove that it had been nothing but a coincidence, he pointed towards a church across the street, and snapped a few pictures. Then he shot a couple of cars rolling to a stop at the corner of his street. He finished off the roll of film with other random, boring shots.
When he had developed the film, the one that should have been a truck double-parked in front of his building, had changed to a horrific traffic accident. Mark had flung the print away.
That night, like before, he had dreamed the details. The next day, he found the street, saw the car that would be involved in the accident, and he let the air out of one of the tires. He had never done anything like that before, but it had been like he was possessed. The owner had come out of nearby bar and shouted, but Mark was too fast for him.
When he went home, the picture had changed. Instead of the accident, he had a print of a guy changing a tire on the car.
The slot on Mark’s door opened with a screech and ripped him from his memories. He tensed, his hands braced on the floor at his sides.
“Approach the door and lie with your feet through the slot,” said a disembodied voice from a speaker set somewhere in the ceiling.
Mark didn’t take the time to look for the source. He followed the directions, flinching when the hated shackles snapped around his ankles. He repeated the process with his hands. The voice then told him to stand in the middle of the room with his back to the door.
He took a deep breath, trying to will his muscles to relax, but the stress and fear overcame him and the chains on his shackles rattled with every wave of fear. If only he had a clue what was going to come next.
The door creaked open, and guards entered. The web of chains again circled his waist and attached his hands and feet to a central chain. He dared to look at the guards surrounding him, relieved that none held the other gear. He felt he could face whatever was coming as long as he could see and hear.
The guards took him down a half dozen hallways, through locked doors and into an elevator. He realized it didn’t matter that he could see. He became so turned around and confused, he had no idea where he was. None of the guards spoke and the halls were quiet. If there were other inmates, Mark didn’t see or hear them.
The group arrived at a door that looked no different than the dozen that they had passed en route. The guard in the lead opened the door and held it open, locking it behind them.
Mark’s apprehension escalated when he noticed some odd features in the room. Eye rings jutted up from the floor and the cement sloped down towards a rusty drain. A wood table with six chairs took up the far wall. Five of the chairs looked like they had been pulled from offices. One was straight-backed and wooden. He had no doubt which one was meant for him.
The lead guard pulled that chair into the middle of the room and motioned for Mark to sit. He did as he was told and waited. The guards remained, none speaking. Mark wondered what they would do if he spoke to them. He could ask the one in charge if he wanted to go have a beer with him after work. Go shoot the breeze.
Of course, he wouldn’t do that. Even if he had tried, it wouldn’t have worked because when he attempted to make eye contact with them, one by one, they looked right through him. It was like he was invisible. Only one, a younger guy, made eye contact, and the flash of knowledge and pity, in the guy’s eyes an instant before he looked away, sent Mark’s heart racing. That guard knew what was coming and whatever it was, wouldn’t be pleasant.
Time passed, but how much, Mark had no way of
knowing. His hands became numb from the cuffs and the position in which he had to hold them. When a key rattled in the door, a bolt of pure fear pinned his back to the chair. His vision narrowed to the entrance and his heart thumped so hard, it threatened to punch a hole through his chest.
Five
Five men entered. Three sat at the table, facing Mark. Two of them had pads of paper and pencils and almost immediately began writing. The third sat back and raised one ankle to rest on his other knee and tilted a bottle of water, taking a long drink.
Mark didn’t like the way the man seemed to be settling in and making himself comfortable. It was as though he expected to be there a long time.
The other two men spoke quietly in the corner for a few minutes. One had dark hair cut short and he moved with a military bearing. The other sported a shaved head, and appeared to be trying to convince the first of something. The dark haired man shook his head, his jaw set.
Mark strained to hear what they said but couldn’t make out the words. After a few minutes of looking through a folder, they appeared to come to some agreement and turned towards Mark. The shaved one ambled up to Mark, halting just in front of him.
“Hello. I’m Bill and this is Jim.” He jabbed his thumb in the direction of the other man. “This group behind me will be observing and taking notes. How it works is like this—we ask you some simple questions, and you answer them. If the answers are satisfactory, then we’ll all have a pleasant session.” He spread his hands and smiled. “We all like when a session is easy, don’t we, Jim?”
Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series) Page 16
