Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series)

by M. P. McDonald

  The guards released his leg shackles and Mark was very conscious of their guns held casually at the ready, but there was nowhere for him to run. Ignoring them the best that he could, he ambled into the center of the small yard. The scent of flowers carried to him on the breeze and he smiled. It was one thing they couldn’t control. He laid on the concrete, not caring how hard it was. It warmed his back, and he closed his eyes.

  In the distance, he heard leaves rustling and birds singing. An ant tickled a path across the back of his hand. He could have fallen asleep right then and he’d dream that he was on North Avenue beach. His limbs grew heavy and he almost dozed, but shook his head to rouse himself. He didn’t want to waste a precious second outdoors in slumber. Sitting up, he draped his arms over his bent knees. Soft pink petals from some tree fluttered in the air like fragrant snowflakes. The sky beyond the walls supplied the ultimate blue backdrop.

  The sun shone almost directly overhead and his hair dried. He wanted to soak in the sunshine and save it up for later. Who knew when he would see it again? This week? Next? Never?

  Too soon, his time was up and he blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the hall. The prison stank of sweat, floor wax and stale cooking odors. He resented those smells taking up residence in his nose and replacing the scent of cherry blossoms and springtime.

  It was one of the few times when he had an idea of night and day. It had been near midday when he had been outside, and he did his best to gauge the time when he returned to his cell. When he deemed it night, he laid down on the thin mattress and pulled the blanket over his head. Between that and draping his arm over his eyes, he achieved some darkness. He missed the blackness of night.

  Mark thought of nighttime in Chicago. It was never truly dark. Some nights he would go to the roof of his building and look south towards the Loop. He never tired of the gorgeous skyline. It killed him to think that people thought he wanted to destroy something so beautiful. He curled on his side, facing the wall. Sleep came more easily than usual. The little bit of fresh air had done its magic, and with his head turned in to his bicep to block the light, he caught the faint scent of spring on his skin.

  “We’ve tried to give you a break. Did you notice the extra food? The time outside? Those perks don’t come for free. Now you have to pay for them. You have to give up some information.”

  “I can’t, sir.” Why did they keep asking him the same questions? Frustration welled and Mark clenched his teeth as he tried to slow his breathing down. He leaned against the wall, his arms spread wide, only his fingertips holding him away from it. His legs angled behind him as though he was doing a push-up against the wall. Only he had to hold the position. For hours. The white cinder-block an inch from his face blurred into a vision of faint gray craters and white ridges. A black scuff mark marred the wall. His arms burned and when they gave him permission to use his forehead to help hold his weight, the relief only lasted a few minutes.

  “I bet your friend Mo didn’t hold out this long before pointing the finger at you. Why are you protecting him and the others?” Jim tapped him on the shoulder with a pen or pencil. Mark wasn’t sure, but even the light tap hurt his quivering muscles.

  The clank of the door slot awakened Mark and he bolted up in bed. What the hell? Instead of the interrogation room, he was still in his cell. His body was slick with sweat and he swiped it off his face. It had been so real. It was like one of his camera induced dreams. How could that be? Shaking, he got up and began pacing the cell.

  Nine

  “Jeez, lady. I almost called the police when I developed these photos.” The owner of the photo developing shop grimaced and shook his head as he rang up her total. “Including the new film, that will be ten dollars and sixty-six cents.”

  Jessie cocked her head. “Excuse me?” She handed him her money. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He held up his hands and looked to the side briefly. “Hey, whatever you’re into is your business, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t bring your film here anymore. At least, not if it has pictures like those on it.”

  Confused and embarrassed but not sure why, Jessie took the envelope of pictures and left. She sat in her car in the parking lot and pulled out the prints. Her niece grinned at her, not the least bit bashful about the two missing teeth. More pictures of the recital, and one of her sister and Maggie. She held one up to get a better look. Maggie had leaned towards her at the last minute and instead of a head and shoulders shot, it was an extreme close up of Maggie’s nose and eyes. It looked kind of cool, even if she did say so herself. Grinning, she flipped through the rest.

  The last few should have been group photos of Maggie with her ballet class, but instead, one was a side view of a man facing a concrete block wall. His body leaned forward, arms spread wide with only his fingertips and forehead holding the weight of his body off the wall. Where in the world had that photo come from? Shaking her head, she set it aside. There must have been a mistake at the processing lab. The guy at the camera place should have been paying better attention to his work instead of looking askance at her. She focused on the very last picture, hoping to get at least one group shot.

  She gasped at the image on the paper. It wasn’t a group shot. A man sat on a bare concrete floor with his hands shackled to his ankles, his face screwed into a mask of pain. On the edges of the photo were booted feet with camouflage pants tucked into the top. She noted a chain that ran from the man’s shackled ankles, to a ring anchored in the floor. The poor guy. His face, eyes open but glazed with exhaustion, angled towards the camera. A shiver of recognition shot through her. Her hand shook as she took a closer look. With a shocked cry, she flung the picture on to the dashboard.

  It was Mark.

  * * *

  All morning, Mark waited. He knew it was inevitable. They would come for him today. He tried to eat breakfast, but it came up as his stomach churned. The day dragged on, and the muscles at the back of his neck tightened, sending waves of pain shooting through his skull. Alternating pacing with sitting against the wall massaging his neck, he tried to put the dream out of his mind. Maybe it was just a regular dream. A very vivid regular dream .Lunch came and went untouched. When the command came to present his hands for the shackles, it was almost a relief. The waiting was over.

  Mark stood motionless as the team assembled in the interrogation room. Head down, he didn’t bother trying to listen for idle chatter this time. What good would it do?

  Bill approached. Mark could tell by the sound of his footsteps. They were slower, less measured than Jim’s. “Did you enjoy your nice little break?”

  Mark clenched his fists, and then took a slow deep breath forcing his fingers to relax. Anger would do no good here. What could he reply to that? Yes? That he’d had a grand old time? Better to remain silent. He didn’t think he would be able to control his sarcasm if he spoke.

  “Say again? I didn’t hear you. Look at me when I speak to you,” Bill snapped.

  Even though he was the ‘good’ one, Mark doubted that Bill had a speck of sympathy for him. “I had a great time...sir.” Mark tried not to glare and averted his eyes, focusing on the wall across the room. He made sure he looked above the group, including Jim, seated at the table watching him.

  Bill leaned into Mark’s field of vision, his eyes narrowed. “You know what? Just to get this show on the road, what do you say we start out with a little stretching exercise?” He motioned to the guards. “Get him in the rowing position.” He turned back to Mark. “You ever rowed a boat?”

  Mark hesitated, looking past Bill to Jim at the table. Did he look annoyed with the suggestion? It was hard to tell. “Uh, yes sir. A few times.”

  “Well then this should bring back some memories.”

  The position they put him in did bring to mind rowing a boat, but only if he remained in the coiled position without ever pushing with his legs and straightening his body. The shackles bit into his wrists and his back musc
les jerked. They left him like that while they went to get lunch. The guards remained, but neither spoke to him. What was the purpose of this? Mark tried to come up with something he could tell them. Had something happened in Afghanistan that they would want to know about? He straightened his knees as much as he could to ease the pulling on his shoulders. That worked for about a minute, and then his hamstrings burned. Mark bit his lip to keep from moaning. His thighs ached as though red hot pokers were being jammed into them.

  Sweat ran in rivulets down his face, the itching causing its own torment. He wiped his cheek against his arm, then left his head there, blocking out the bright lights.

  In a small town outside Kabul, he had witnessed a woman being beaten by a crowd. He’d wanted to rush over to help, but Mo had stopped him with the warning that the crowd would turn on them if they did anything. It was the custom there, and there wasn’t anything they could do. Horrified, Mark had turned away, but not before using his long lens to get some shots of the atrocity.

  That night, Mo had gone off alone, telling Mark he was just going to visit some old friends. Mark hadn’t felt like socializing after seeing the scene in the town square and had been happy that Mo had dropped him off at the hotel in Kabul. What if Mo’s visiting had been something more sinister? Mark groaned with both physical and mental anguish. How could he prove that he had been at the hotel and not off hatching plans with Mo and the bad guys?

  The door to the room opened and Mark tried not to look at the men as they filed in, not wanting them to see his weakness, but he couldn’t help stealing a glance, despite his best efforts to refrain. He hoped that someone would release him now—before he began to moan. It took all his willpower to remain silent. Bill had a bag from a fast food restaurant. The scent wafted to Mark and his mouth instantly flooded. He swallowed and tried to ignore the smell. His back spasmed again and the tantalizing aroma was forgotten as he gasped and writhed.

  Jim, his hands in his pockets, stood beside Mark. “Ready to talk?”

  Mark panted, “Yes, sir.” Whatever it took to end this. He could tell them about Mo going off alone that night. It was all he had. He prayed it was enough. Had Mo been put through this kind of interrogation? Is that how they had acquired information on Mark? If it was, he almost couldn’t blame his old friend for lying.

  The guard unclipped Mark’s wrists from his ankles and, with the release, Mark sagged onto his back, gasping. The relief was immediate, but not complete. His muscles still quivered and jumped, and he was surprised that they allowed him a moment to compose himself. He gulped air, every breath drying out his mouth. He must have sweated a gallon.

  Jim stepped back and began a slow circle around him, making him nervous. Mark was the carrion, Jim, the vulture.

  Mark bit back a groan as he sat up and the guards helped him to his feet where he swayed for a moment. He felt like he had just run a marathon. The smell of French fries made his stomach rumble.

  “Well, let’s hear it.” Jim had come around to stand in front of him.

  “One night, Mo went off by himself to meet old friends.” Mark paused to catch another breath and to stall, trying to make the thin bit of information sound more important than it was. He slanted a glance at Jim. “Maybe he planned something that night?” It sounded lame even to him. Mark saw a flash of anger on Jim’s face. Ice rattled as Bill swished his drink, before setting it down. A drop of condensation raced down the side and pooled on the table. Mark licked his lips and tore his eyes away from the sight. No use adding to his own torture.

  “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to tell us?” Jim shook his head and turned away as if thoroughly disgusted with Mark.

  Mark bowed his head. He should have gone with Mo that night. At least then he would have something to tell Jim now. Paper crinkled and Mark looked up to see Bill unwrapping a burger. Lettuce and tomato peeked out from under the bun. The scent made his mouth water.

  Jim came back to Mark, his arms crossed. “I’m disappointed. Here I thought you had something useful.” He sighed.

  Bill opened a pack of ketchup and squirted it into a pile on the wrapping. Mark watched him dip a fry and then pop it into his mouth. Jim said something and Mark pulled his attention back to him. At least he tried to, but when Bill lifted the burger and took a bite, his eyes darted back to watch the man sink his teeth into it. Mark could almost taste the cool lettuce, the crisp tomato and the tangy mayonnaise.

  “Am I boring you?” Jim’s voice was low and held a note of danger.

  Mark snapped his gaze back to him. “No, sir.”

  “We’ve tried to give you a break. Did you notice the extra food? The time outside? Those perks don’t come for free. Now you have to pay for them. You have to give up some information. Some real information.”

  The comment was straight out of his dream. Somehow, even without the camera, his dream was going to come true. Mark locked his knees to keep from sinking to the floor. They insisted he give up something he didn’t have to give.

  * * *

  Jessie strapped her shoulder holster on before slipping her arms into her jacket. The pictures from Mark’s camera lay on her dresser, and she picked one up. She had already shown her sister the ones from the recital and just said that the group shots hadn’t turned out. It was true, so she didn’t feel guilty and there was no need to mention these images.

  She tucked the two of Mark into her purse along with the negatives. There was a camera shop on her way to work and she planned to talk to them during lunch, if she had a chance. If nothing else, she wanted to enlarge the photos. There might be something in them that would clue her in to when they had been taken. The negative listed them as the twenty-third and twenty-fourth frames, but that couldn’t be right. They had to have been on the film and she had just used up the rest photographing the recital. The frame counter had said zero, but it was an old camera. She hoped the person at the camera store could tell her something about it.

  The morning dragged and Jessie kept glancing at the clock. It was a beautiful day. School had just let out for the summer and, she heard children playing at the park across the street. The clock inched towards noon, and Jessie pulled the photos out of her purse to take another look. Even though she had studied them a dozen times already, she hoped each time that something would turn up and show that the pics were only from a costume party or even some kinky sexual thing. She felt her face heat up and glanced at Dan at the other desk, hoping he didn’t notice. She shouldn’t have looked because he caught her eye.

  “What do you have there?” He rolled his chair across the gap between them.

  Jessie turned the photos face down and bent to get her purse. “Oh, nothing, just some photos I...found.”

  “Yeah? So why are you hiding them?” Dan grinned and made a ‘give me’ gesture. “Come on, show me.”

  Jessie sighed and ran a hand through her hair, letting the strands settle. “Okay, but I’m warning you, they aren’t easy to look at.”

  Dan’s grin faltered and he hesitated as his hand closed over the photos. With a questioning glance at Jessie, he flipped the pictures over. The first was the one of Mark seated on the floor, his knees bent and shoulders pulled forward at a painful angle. If Dan knew who it was, he didn’t let on, he just studied the photo for a minute before moving onto the second one. His eyes widened and then he shook his head, his mouth set in a hard line. “Where’d you get these?”

  Jessie shrugged. “I used one of Mark’s cameras to take pictures at my niece’s recital Saturday. Remember I told you about how he had been evicted and everything was on the lawn? The camera was in with his stuff. When I picked the photos up yesterday, those two were in with the pictures of the little girls dancing.”

  “You think these were taken before he...before he was arrested?” Dan rarely spoke of Mark now. There was no reason to, since the guy wasn’t always intruding in their cases, but once he had called Mark a poor bastard. It had been said with regret, like he knew something, but
he had never elaborated.

  Leaning over to see the photos again, she shook her head. “It makes sense. I mean, obviously, I didn’t take them, but according to the negatives, these were the last two on the roll of film.” Jessie sat back and pulled the envelope with the negatives out of her purse. “See?”

  “That’s weird.” Dan skimmed through the negatives. “Maybe they cut them wrong?”

  “Could be. I’m heading to a camera shop in a few minutes to see if they can tell me anything.” She stood and held her hand out. “But, even if the images were on the film before I used the camera, what are they pictures of? Who is making him do that?”

  Dan handed her the pictures and she traced a finger over Mark’s pain-glazed eyes in the second photo. “Look at this, his hands are still shackled and it looks like he can’t even raise them high enough to get proper leverage.”

  “It’s a stress position.” Dan rolled his chair back and stood, grabbing his jacket off the back. “I’d like to come with you, if you don’t mind.”

  Jessie pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sure, but what’s a stress position?”

  “Just what it sounds like. It’s a form of persuasion used by some governments to get prisoners to give up information.” Dan angled his head towards the door. “Come on. I’m curious now. Maybe someone planted those pictures in the packet somehow.”

  Jessie went ahead of him down the hallway. “What if they weren’t planted?” So far, she had refused to consider the story Mark had told her after his initial arrest. That was crazy. She could only surmise that he’d been desperate to concoct something that outlandish. That was the only logical explanation.

  * * *

  “Wow, that’s wild.” The guy examined the negatives and pictures. “These negatives definitely came off the same roll of film. They were processed together, all the cuts on the film strips line up. They physically came from the same roll of film, and see where the film winds around the take-up spool in the camera?” He pointed to the square holes at the bottom of the negatives and continued, “Every fifth one has a tiny notch in it. The notch is on the second picture as well as the ones from the recital. I bet if I look at the camera you took the pictures with, I’ll find a small defect on one of the teeth that pulls the film through the camera.”