Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series)

by M. P. McDonald

  Jim grunted and glared at Mark, his arms crossed. “Let’s just get on with it.”

  Mark squirmed under the scrutiny. What more could he tell them that he hadn’t already told the FBI? What was this Jim guy so pissed about?

  Bill shrugged. “Okay. You go first, Jim. I’ll just go sit over here.”

  Jim directed a glare at the guard on Mark’s right. “Why is he sitting in a chair? This isn’t a goddamn social call.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  The guard yanked Mark up by the arm and Mark staggered as the chains connecting his ankles and hands pulled his arms down. He didn’t know why he felt guilty, like he had done something wrong. The guards had told him to sit, so he had, but Jim aimed his annoyance at Mark, not the guard.

  He stood as straight as he could and tried to meet Jim’s stare without flinching. The shackles tugged on his arms and kept his shoulders hunched. Instinct told him to stand straight and tall, but it was physically impossible. To compensate, he refused to look away from Jim’s glare.

  “What are you looking at?” Jim approached Mark, stopping when their faces were less than a foot apart. “You have something you want to say?”

  That did it. Mark broke eye contact for an instant.

  “I didn’t hear you.” Now Jim’s nose almost touched Mark’s.

  Mark flinched, drawing back, but the guard poked him in the spine with something hard.

  He struggled not to wince and licked his lips, the desert in his mouth making speech difficult. “Yes. I do have something to say. I want to state that I’m innocent.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the men with the paper scribbling and hoped they noted his declaration.

  Jim’s expression didn’t change and he spoke as if Mark hadn’t said anything. “You are to address me as sir, understand?” He never raised his voice, but threat laced every syllable of the sentence.

  Mark nodded. “Yes, sir.” His face burned with humiliation. It must be easy being a tough guy when your adversary was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

  “Now, I have some simple questions. I just want the facts.” Jim stepped back and opened the folder. “It says here that your name is Mark Andrew Taylor. You’re thirty-five years old, never married and you live in Chicago. Is that all true?”

  Mark nodded.

  Jim cocked his head. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s all true,” Mark said. The menace in Jim’s voice sent shivers shooting through him.

  Jim asked some more questions, verifying the names of Mark’s parents, where he grew up, the college he had attended. Mark knew all that information had to be in his file and tried to determine the motive for asking it all again. The questions moved on to Mark’s photography and despite the circumstances, Mark felt his enthusiasm for discussing his craft begin to surface.

  “What kind of photography do you do?” Jim’s voice sounded almost friendly, as if he and Mark were chatting at a party.

  “I do portraits and commercial photography in the studio in my loft.”

  Jim didn’t reply, just nodded and waited, so Mark continued, “Commercial jobs are for magazines and advertisements, mostly. Portraits are anything from family and group shots to head-shots for actors and models.”

  “Is that all you do?”

  Mark shook his head and just in time, remembered to add the sir to his next reply. “No, sir. Those jobs pay the bills, but what I love to do is take candid photos of people and try to capture their...their spirit.” He knew it sounded hokey, but he didn’t know how else to explain it. When he caught someone on film with that unguarded expression that invited the camera in, it was like hitting a home run.

  “What kind of photography did you do in Afghanistan a few years ago?” Jim’s voice had an edge to it. “I don’t expect there are a lot of actors looking for head-shots in Kandahar or Kabul.”

  “Um, no sir. I was there to do photos for a friend’s book.”

  Jim paced in front of him and then halted and quirked an eyebrow at Mark. “And did that pay the bills?” Sarcasm dripped from the words.

  Sensing that Jim was zeroing in on key questions, Mark considered his reply carefully. “No, sir. Mo offered a partnership of sorts. He paid for the trip, but I would get a percentage from the sale of the book.”

  “How much did that turn out to be?”

  “Nothing, sir. He is still shopping the book around, the last I heard.”

  “So you’re telling me that you went there out of the goodness of your heart to help out a friend?”

  “I thought it could be a good opportunity. It was a chance I took.”

  Jim shook his head, as though Mark had been cheated. “So, Mo was your friend for how long?”

  Mark counted back to the time he’d met Mo at a red carpet event they were both covering. “About five years. He helped me out with some photo shoots when I needed another photographer. Sometimes, he even waited for payment until I was actually paid for the shoot. Photography is a small world and we try to help each other out when we can.”

  Jim chuckled. “Oh, really?”

  Mark remained silent, not sure if Jim asked a question or was just commenting. The look on the other man’s face frightened him. He had seen a cat play with a mouse before, swiping at it with his paw, letting it crawl away, only to pounce in for the kill when the mouse was only a few inches from the safety of its hole. Jim looked like that cat.

  Flipping to another page in the file, Jim smiled. “You might consider Mohommad a friend, but he sure doesn’t feel the same about you. Do you know what he told us?”

  Mark shook his head. His stomach twisted. He hadn’t spoken to Mohammad for six months. Every time he called him, he got voice mail.

  “He said that you were at an al-Qaeda training camp. That you and he trained there and agreed to take pictures of targets in the U.S. Your area was Chicago.”

  Confused, he had no idea how to reply. Had Mo really said that? Why would he lie? “That’s not true, sir. I don’t know why he would say those things. I only took pictures of the subjects for Mo’s book. I never saw any training camps. And I definitely never agreed to take pictures of targets in any city, let alone Chicago.”

  Jim shrugged, his head tilting. “Hey, he’s your friend.”

  He let that statement hang in the air, and the men sitting at the table bent their heads, the scratch of their pens the only sound in the room. Fear coursed through him—a desperate fear that they would judge Mark guilty by association.

  Jim turned to Bill. “I’ve finished with my questions for the moment.”

  Bill stood and stretched. “So, let me make sure I have this correct?” He put his hands behind his back and, head down, approached Mark. “You went to Afghanistan with a confirmed member of al-Qaeda, but you deny any involvement?”

  Desperation rose up and spilled out. “I never heard of al-Qaeda until the attacks. I swear to God. I never talked to anyone.”

  Bill sighed. “I wish we could believe you. Really. I do.”

  “The FBI guys in Chicago took all my negatives, all my photos—check them out. You’ll see. This is all a big mistake.” Mark looked from Bill to Jim, willing them to believe him. Sweat drenched his body and he could smell the acrid scent of his own fear.

  “Oh, we will. Preliminary reports state some photographs of the Sears Tower were found amongst your files.”

  Mark searched his memory. He took thousands of pictures a year. It’s likely at some point he had taken some pictures of the building. Who in Chicago hadn’t?

  Before he could reply, Bill motioned to the guards. “Set him up for position three.”

  Position three? What the hell was that? A guard circled in front of him and released Mark’s hands from the chain that connected to the one between his ankles. The guard attached a longer chain on the end and passed the end over Mark’s shoulder to another guard behind him. The wooden chair scraped across the floor, and Mark turned to see the guard behind him stand on the chair an
d pass the end of the chain through an eye bolt jutting out of the ceiling. Dread flooded him and he looked to the men seated at the table. The two writing had set their pens down and the other one sat back with his arms folded. Were they just going to sit there and watch?

  Seconds later, Mark’s arms jerked as the chain tightened until his arms were pulled up and behind his head. In front of him, the first guard secured a short chain to a bolt in the floor. His shoulders began to ache almost immediately and when he tried to step back to ease the tension, the chain connected on the floor pulled tight, and he had the sensation of falling backwards. A knife-like kind of pain shot across his shoulders as they bore all of his weight for those few seconds. The position forced him to keep his feet forward while his arms pulled him back. It didn’t take long before the ache turned to an unrelenting burning.

  Mark hung with only the balls of his feet touching the floor. If he pushed with his toes, it relieved the pressure in his shoulders a tiny bit, but created a new pain in his calves.

  They didn’t need to do this. His breaths scraped out, harsh and loud. Sweat dripped, stinging his eyes. He tried to swipe his face on one of his shoulders, but they were pulled too far back. A groan escaped him and Jim looked up from the file, his face impassive.

  Mark looked at Bill. Maybe he would show some mercy. He licked his lips, ready to plead with the man, when without warning, a hood descended, cutting off Mark’s vision. He shook his head, knowing it was futile but the pain and sense of suffocation forced him to react.

  His hands went numb even as his shoulders and legs shot bolts of agony though his limbs. He tried to stay quiet-tried not to let them hear how much it hurt. He didn’t want to give the bastards the satisfaction. Despite his resolve, his head sagged forward and every gasping breath ended in a moan. He couldn’t help it. His eyes watered and he was almost glad for the hood. At least that shame was hidden.

  Occasionally, sounds in the room would register as the men spoke to each other, or a chair creaked, but for the most part, he was lost in his own little world of pain.

  A long time later, the chain holding his arms went slack. Mark groaned and collapsed, his legs unable to hold him. He lay on his side and his muscles quivered uncontrollably. The floor felt cool against his body. He grit his teeth at the needles of feeling that returned to his limbs. Nobody touched him, and exhausted, he lay limp. He didn’t think he could move at that moment even if they held a gun to his head. The thought that might actually be their next tactic crossed his mind. He wouldn’t put it past them, so when the footsteps approached, he tried to muster his energy to stand.

  “Get the hood off him.” Mark recognized Jim’s voice. He hoped the tears had dried.

  When the hood was lifted, Mark took a deep breath. In all his other misery, the suffocating heat in the hood had been the least of his worries, but now that it was gone, he sucked in the fresh air. It felt wonderful. His hair was plastered to his head, and with a groan, he swiped his forehead on his shoulder, but it did no good as every part of his body was soaked with sweat.

  Jim leaned over him, his face unreadable. “Stand.”

  Mark turned and pushed up from the floor. His legs wobbled, but he made it to a standing position. His chest heaved with the effort.

  Jim paced in front of him, and then circled Mark, his nose wrinkled in disgust. “Next time we ask for answers, I hope you’ll be more forthcoming.”

  Mark couldn’t reply. His throat was raw hamburger, but he shook his head. How much more could he say? What did they want him to say? If only he could figure it out. They demanded a confession and it was the one thing Mark couldn’t give them.

  * * *

  He collapsed on his bed. He should splash water on his face and get at least some of the sweat off his body, but before the thought could fully form in his mind, he slept.

  The light was still just as bright when he woke up and a tray of food sat on the floor. He swung his legs over the side and grunted at the stiffness in his body. He felt like someone had taken a bat to his shoulders, and his calves cramped when he attempted to stand. Mark sucked in a breath and bit his lip as he slowly straightened.

  The food beckoned and he shuffled over and took it back to bed to eat. It was an odd combination of eggs and chicken, canned fruit, a slice of bread and tomato juice. He hated tomato juice, but drank it anyway, washing it down with the juice in the fruit cup. After finishing the rest of the meal, he filled the juice cup up with water from his sink and guzzled it.

  The water and food revived him a bit and after shoving the tray back out into the hall; he did his best to wash up in the sink. He didn’t have a towel and had to use his blanket to dry off. He even rinsed his t-shirt and wrung it out, hoping it would dry before he had to go on any other excursions.

  Mark lay curled on his side with the blanket wrapped around him. The time in the interrogation played over in his mind. Until then, he had believed that they would realize their mistake and that he would be released. The brutal treatment shoved that notion out of his head. He shivered, and pulled the blanket tighter.

  The thing that shocked him most was Mo’s statement that implicated him. They had been friends. Maybe they weren’t best friends, but Mark had felt nothing but pride in the book Mo had written. Pride that he had been a part of something that tried to bring an injustice to light. Now, he doubted that there had ever been a book. Why had Mo dragged him along? Just as a cover?

  The more he thought back on that trip, the more things he had shrugged off began to make sense. The two days Mo had left him at the hotel to go meet with a family. Mo had told him that the family didn’t want their pictures in the book, and that he was going to use an alias for them. Mark could remain at the hotel. It had made sense at the time. That was when he had gone exploring the city and found the bazaar. If only he had known what a turning point his life would take after that trip.

  He rubbed his eyes and wished that they would turn off the damn lights. The constant glare made his head hurt. Mark swung his legs off the bed and stood, dropping the blanket in a heap. His shoulders ached and he knew that his legs would be sore in the morning. Or evening. Or whenever the hell it was.

  A window high in the wall teased him with its blacked out rectangle. At first, he thought it was nighttime, then he studied it, noting that the small rectangle of plexi-glass had been covered on the outside with something black. He balled his fists in fury as he recognized how intent they were on breaking him. Even daylight was forbidden.

  Mark stalked to the door and pressed his face to the window, angling his head to look to the right. If there was a window at the end of the hall, he might see sunlight streaming through it. Nothing. Just dim artificial light. Frustrated, he pounded on the door a half dozen times. The side of his hand stung, but the door was so solid, it didn’t even yield a satisfying thunk when he hit it. Shit!

  With no way to vent, his anger built, and he braced his hands against the door. Gritting his teeth, he tried to rein in the violence threatening to explode out of him. It would do no good. He leaned against the door, taking deep breaths until he regained control. Fight or flight responses denied, he sank to the floor in defeat.

  The cold metal felt good on his shoulders and was probably the closest thing to an ice pack he would get in here. He tilted his head back and stared at the dull white ceiling. A black plastic bubble poked out of a corner. A camera. He almost laughed at the irony.

  Hours passed and as the metal warmed, his bare shoulders stuck to it, but he didn’t bother moving. He had nothing to do, and even with his constant anxiety about what the future held, boredom set in. How long would they hold him like this?

  His life, especially since he bought the old camera, had been a whirlwind. If he didn’t have a future picture to make right, he had photo shoots scheduled or clients to meet. Even on the rare days when he had nothing scheduled, he rode his bike, jogged, or just hiked around town, his camera a constant companion. He missed the weight of it around his n
eck. Reaching up, he felt the roughened skin on the side of his neck where the strap always chafed. How many times had he been teased because it looked like a hickey?

  Mark stared at the opposite wall, smiling at the memory of Jessie Bishop raising an eyebrow at the sight of the permanent abrasion. He took a deep shaky breath. What he wouldn’t give to talk to her right now. Hell, to talk to anyone.

  His throat constricted, the ache building until he was sure it would choke him. What if they kept him in here for months? He would go crazy.

  Once, he had been on Lower Wacker Drive just trying to get some shots of something different. A homeless man had staggered into him, and Mark would never forget the chill he had felt when he had looked the man in the face. The man’s expression held no emotion. After stumbling away from Mark, he had pulled a dirty bakery bag out of his coat and dug out bits of donuts, shoving them in his mouth. It was like the man ate only to exist. Mark shuddered. Would he become like that poor fellow—just a shell of a person, more animal than human?

  Six

  Jessie tapped her pencil eraser against the desktop as she surveyed the files stacked in the out-box and felt a surge of satisfaction. She was finally caught up. It had taken two months, but every case file that held something that might interest the FBI had been identified and the information forwarded to the Chicago bureau. It was out of her hands now.

  She glanced out the window at the bleak gray sky. The few leaves, brown and curled, clung to a maple outside her building and twisted in the wind. Jessie wondered how a few always managed to cling all winter despite the abuse. How come the rest of the leaves couldn’t hang on? She shook her head at the idle thought. Yawning, she opened the bottom desk drawer and withdrew her purse, digging into it for her lip balm. A knock at her doorway made her look up.

  Balm poised in front of her mouth, she said, “Yes, can I help you?” to a man standing in the threshold.

  His off-the-rack suit couldn’t quite conceal a slight paunch and the button on his jacket strained. Short, dark hair, graying at the temples should have lent him a dignified air, but his sallow complexion detracted from it. A briefcase completed the picture of a middle management government employee.