He cursed his stupidity. Here she was offering her home to him and he’d acted like the thought had never occurred to him. He’d embarrassed her. “Jessie.”
She blinked but kept her eyes riveted on the program.
“Jess...could you look at me?” He reached for her feet again, giving a toe a playful tweak.
Her face impassive, she turned her face to him. “Yeah?”
“I’d be honored.”
* * *
“Done with that?” When Jessie nodded, Mark added her plate to the armful of dirty dishes, and carried them to the sink. The dark room was finished, and he’d returned his keys to Bud, who had acted sorry to see him go. Mark had promised to call to go out for a beer now and then and he meant it. He’d learned his lesson about losing touch with friends. As he rinsed the plates, he looked over his shoulder. “I got a couple of photography jobs.”
“Really? That’s wonderful!” She beamed at him over the rim of her coffee cup.
He shrugged, but couldn’t quite smother the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “They don’t pay much, but it’s a start. Gary suggested me when a woman came into the shop and mentioned looking for a photographer for a small wedding. “
“It’s a great start. Soon, you’ll be back to how you were before.”
Mark wrung out the sponge, giving it a harder than needed twist. “Yeah. Maybe.” Bending his head, he scrubbed the baking sheet. When would every mention of the past stop hurting?
A minute or so later, Jessie’s hand reached into the sink and caught his. “Mark. Stop. You’re going to ruin the finish on that.”
He blinked. “Sorry. There was some chicken stuck to it.”
She took the sponge out of his hand. “I’m sorry I said anything about the past, but we can’t keep tiptoeing around it.”
“Who asked you to?” Mark snatched the sponge and began wiping the counters. He heard her sigh, but ignored it. “You can talk all you want about the past. Hell, I can talk about it if you want.”
“Right.”
He glanced up at her skeptical tone. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed and eyebrow quirked. He flung the sponge into the sink. “What do you want to know?”
“What were the other inmates like?”
“I have no idea. I never saw any others.”
Surprise showed on her face and she dropped the tough stance. “Ever?”
“Nope. It was just me and the guards.” He grabbed the roll of paper towels, tore off a few and turned to dry the counters. “They weren’t too chatty.” His attempt at humor died as the remembered loneliness swept over him. “I saw a doctor occasionally, and a few times, a chaplain came by. He was nice.” Ducking his head, he used his thumbnail to scrape a drop of barbecue sauce off the counter. “And Jim and Bill, of course. Saw them more than I wanted to.” Lost in memories, he stopped scraping and stared at the slate gray stone beneath his hand.
“Mark, you don’t have to say any more. I’m sorry.” She’d lost the skeptical note.
He snapped back to the present and shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.” Wadding up the paper towels, he sought a change of subject, throwing out the first thing he could think of. “Getting back to photography, I was thinking of using my camera again. Just a few times.”
Jessie stopped in the act of filling the soap dispenser in the dishwasher and straightened, box still poised. “Your special camera? Seriously?”
Mark nodded, not sure when he had made the decision to use the camera again, but the feeling had been building ever since he’d held it, and now that he’d said it out-loud, a surge of excitement shot through him. “Not every day. I have to work, but I have a few days off a week. If something comes up, maybe I can make a difference.”
* * *
Mark slid out of bed, careful not to disturb Jessie. Today was the day. He stretched and rolled his shoulder, wincing as it popped. The dream to match the picture was still fresh in his mind. He’d wondered if the dreams would still come, but now he had his answer.
“Are you going?” Jessie scooted up in bed, the t-shirt she wore, one of his, slipping off her shoulder
He was tempted to say he hadn’t dreamed any details and return to bed. After hiding the magic of the camera for two years, and then being punished for using it, his first instinct was to deny what he was planning on doing. But this was Jessie. She knew all his secrets.
“I figured I’d go. It couldn’t hurt to at least see if I can change it.” There. He’d committed.
She held his gaze until Mark had to shift his focus. They’d discussed it, and he knew she’d support him if he put the camera down forever, but he knew she wanted him to use it if he could.
He grabbed his clothes out of a drawer, setting them next to the camera. The thrill of using it yesterday still simmered inside of him, and he picked it up, shivering at the hum of energy that coursed up his arms. It felt odd, but pleasant, like a warm tickle in his muscles.
Jessie caught his eye in the mirror. “You want me to go with?”
Mark had thought about asking her to go with him. He’d love nothing more than to have her along to push him to use it, but he had to know if he could do it on his own so he shook his head. “No. I gotta do it myself.” He set the camera down and rummaged for his socks.
The bedsprings creaked followed by the soft slap of Jessie’s feet on the hardwood floor. She hugged him from behind and planted a kiss between his shoulder blades. “You’ll be fine, but if you need anything, I’ll be here.”
He swallowed and his voice was rough when he said, “I know.”
* * *
An hour later, he trotted down the EL platform steps and headed west. His photos had shown a warehouse engulfed in flames, but even worse, in his dream, he’d seen two people trapped inside the building. Two blocks later, he turned north. The area teemed with warehouses, but the one he sought sported a faded red logo on the side. It might have been a cardinal at one time, but the elements had turned it into nothing more than a faint outline. It was still easy to spot and he tried the front door. Locked. Of course.
The dream had omitted a key piece of information—where the fire would start. Without that, Mark could only guess. He circled to the back, skirting around an overflowing Dumpster. Pot holes filled with stagnant water dotted the pavement, and he swore when he stepped in one and flooded his shoe. Shaking his foot, he approached the deserted loading dock. Where the hell was everyone?
“Hello?” Silence. Mark swung up onto the cement block. There had to be somebody around. At least the two who were in his dream should be somewhere about. The large door was closed, so he tried a smaller one beside it. It opened, and Mark chalked one up in his favor as he stepped into the dim interior. His earlier jitters settled into a low hum of energy. The cavernous room was empty except for broken boxes and trash littering the floor. His footsteps echoed and dust motes clogged the air as he crossed to a door on the far side of the room.
Smoke. More than just dust filled the air—some of it was smoke. Tendrils licked around the base of the door. He touched the wood. It was warm, but not hot. This door had been in the dream and he was sure he could open it without facing flames. Still, he cringed when he pushed it open.
He coughed at the first blast of heat and smoke. His eyes watered and he crouched as he went left.
“Hey! Anybody in here?”
“Help!”
The cry came from directly behind him, and Mark spun. “Where are you?”
“We’re stuck in here!”
The voice came from behind a heavy metal door. Mark tried the doorknob. “It’s locked!”
He scanned the hall for anything he could use to pry open the door.
“We hid in here when the watchman came by this morning, now we’re locked in. There’s a crowbar behind the door by the loading dock. Hurry!” Coughing punctuated the instructions.
Mark raced back the way he’d come, looked behind the door and found the tool. When he reached
the door, a fit of coughing overtook him and he crouched for a few seconds, hoping the clearer air close to the floor would ease his breathing.
Straightening, he jammed the flat end between the door and the jamb and pushed. He groaned with the strain. The door wouldn’t budge.
Sweat ran into his eyes and he swiped his forearm across his forehead before bending to grab another lungful of air to try again. The latch broke with his second effort and he had to catch himself before he fell into the room.
The men rushed past him, and Mark staggered after them, but when they got outside, he didn’t stop to chat, he just handed one the crowbar and kept walking. His throat burned and getting a drink of water was his second priority. His first was to use the pay phone up the block and call in the fire.
As he hung up the phone, he broke into a grin. He’d done it. He was back. A quick stop in a mini-mart for a bottle of water, and then he was up the steps to the “L”. Fellow passengers wrinkled their noses at him as he walked through the car, but he didn’t care. His heart raced with excess adrenaline and his hands still shook. It was the best feeling in the world. He thought of Jessie and amended his thought. It was the second best feeling in the world.
Twenty-Three
Mark examined the latest photos in the dim red light. What the hell? He looked at the whole batch and swore as he made sense of the images. Bodies and...blood? Bodies of men, women and children, teens and senior citizens—people who’d probably just been celebrating only moments before the photos were snapped—lay sprawled where they fell.
A white flag with a blue ‘W’ curled into the corner of the photo. He recognized that flag. Wrigley Field. Bile burned the back of his throat. Instead of one or two pictures depicting a tragedy, five photos had developed. Every one of them showed the same scenes, the only difference was the gate number over the exit tunnel.
This was big. Mark’s hand shook as he hung the last photo to dry. How would he stop this? Who could do something so horrible? He shook his head. Stupid question. The real question was why?
He wasn’t even sure what had killed the people. Leaning forward, he peered at the photos looking for clues. Other than the blood and bodies, there didn’t seem to be much out of the ordinary. There was no debris or smoke, so a bomb wasn’t likely. For so many to die or be injured, it had to have been something quick. Automatic gunfire?
As he studied the photos, he began seeing individuals. A blond woman still clutching a small child. Poking out from beneath a man was a tiny foot. A baby. Mark gagged and braced his hands on the counter, hanging his head. Several slow deep breaths later, he tried again, taking each photo down. They were dry enough.
He didn’t want to see the faces, he only wanted to find clues, but his eye was drawn to the faces despite his attempts to look past them. It was no use. Everybody became a person. Every person became someone’s child, someone’s mother, someone’s best friend.
Or someone’s torturer. Mark snapped the fourth picture from the clip. Shit! Jim Sheridan. What the hell was he doing at a Cub’s game? Not that it mattered. He was there in the picture. A victim just like the rest.
He couldn’t look anymore. Not now.
What the hell was he supposed to do with these pictures? Mark yanked open the door of the dark room and stalked to the kitchen. He could throw them out. The trash was right there. He could pretend he had never seen them. His shoulders slumped. No he couldn’t. As tempting as it was, the dream would come tonight no matter what. Tossing out the photos wouldn’t change that.
What he needed was a shot of whiskey or a tumbler full of scotch, but he would have to make do with a lite beer.
Half the beer went down in one long guzzle, then he grabbed a second out of the fridge, tucked the pictures under his arm, and trudged to the sofa. He dropped the stack of pictures on the coffee table. In a corner of his mind, he had an idea that if he got plastered, maybe the dream that finished off the photos would never materialize.
He finished the beer and opened the second before flipping on the television, seeking distraction. His eyes kept straying to the pictures despite the baseball game playing on TV. Maybe because of it. The second beer went down almost as fast as the first, and he debated getting a third. Before he made up his mind, the phone rang, but he let it go three rings before he bothered to check the caller ID. It was Jessie. Part of him was glad, he hadn’t had a chance to talk to her yet today as she’d had an early meeting, but right at the moment, he wasn’t in the mood to talk.
“Yeah?” There was a gaping silence on the other end and Mark winced, picturing Jessie’s surprise at his abrupt answer.
“Well, aren’t you full of sunshine and light.” She was pissed.
Mark closed his eyes and circled the heel of his hand on his forehead. “Sorry, Jess. I just developed my film.”
Jessie’s voice lost its sarcasm. “It’s a bad one? What happens?”
He nodded to the first question even though she couldn’t see it. “Yeah. Real bad. Something big. And...And there’s something else...”
“Someone you know?”
Sheridan’s final grimace, frozen on his face, shouldn’t bother him so much. The bastard had it coming. “Yeah, I know him, that’s for sure.” He flipped the picture over. “It’s Sheridan.” Mark stood and paced to the window.
“Jim Sheridan?”
“Yep.” That third beer called to him and he heeded the call. With the phone tucked between his chin and shoulder, he opened the fridge and retrieved two more bottles and returned to the sofa. “And hundreds of others.”
“Shit.”
“My thoughts exactly.” He laughed, but the sound died in his throat. “What do I do?” It wasn’t fair to ask her. It was his responsibility. He sucked in a breath. His responsibility. Had he answered his own question? Grabbing the third beer, he gave the top a savage twist.
Jessie’s voice cut through his inner turmoil, “Listen, Mark. I’ll be home soon, I’m just leaving work. We’ll think of something. Have you eaten yet?”
Mark lifted the beer; despite the calories, it wouldn’t count as food. “No, I’m having my own little cocktail party.”
He heard her sigh. “I’ll grab some takeout. Don’t worry, we’ll work this out.”
Mark nodded again. “Okay.”
* * *
Jessie juggled the bags of Chinese food as she opened the door. “Hey, I’m here.”
Silence greeted her announcement. Puzzled, she set the bags down on the counter and went to the living room. Mark sat on the edge of the sofa, the fingertips of one hand resting on the mouth of a beer bottle. His other held a photo.
She walked to the back of the sofa and stopped behind him. Three empty bottles lined the right side of the coffee table. “Mark?”
Mark started and the bottle teetered, but he steadied it before it toppled. He looked over his shoulder. “I didn’t hear you come in.” His voice sounded wooden and his eyes were dull.
She leaned over and nuzzled his neck. “I brought food. Come and eat.”
“Don’t you want to see the pictures?”
“Not yet. I think we should eat first.”
“Oh. Okay.” He stood, swayed for a second, and then ambled out to the kitchen.
He sounded distant and he hadn’t even asked what she had brought. “I got Chinese.”
“Sounds good.”
“I hope it tastes as good as it smells.” She had a feeling she could have brought him a plate of dog food and he would have had the same reaction.
Mark loaded a plate with fried rice, cashew chicken, and egg rolls. Jessie filled a dish for herself as well, and poured glasses of ice water for the both of them. Mark didn’t seem to notice when she took his beer and set it on the counter. He had brought the pictures in with him, and they lay face down on the table beside his plate.
“I wonder what he’s doing at a Cub’s game?”
Mark stared at the end of an egg roll. “Yeah, I can’t picture him in that light.” He
shrugged and took a bite. After chewing for a few seconds, he said, “I guess he’s a normal guy most of the time.”
Jessie scooped up a forkful of fried rice. “Okay, so maybe we can get him to cancel his game plans.”
Mark put the egg roll down. His mouth set in a hard line as he stared past her, his fingers drumming on the table. He didn’t speak, but bent his head and took a deep breath. After a lengthy silence, he met her gaze, his expression defiant. “What if I don’t want to save him?” He turned the pictures face up, and then pushed them across the table.
She winced at the images and set her plate aside, no longer hungry. Even though she knew what the guy had done to Mark; had even seen the pictures of it, she couldn’t hate him. Jessie recalled the day she met Sheridan. Her first impression had been that he was cold, but then she saw something else. A dedication that she understood, and she couldn’t help admiring his attempt to seek the truth.
Jessie searched his eyes, knowing that she had to word this just right. “I know that Sheridan isn’t high on your list of favorite people.” Ignoring his ‘ya think’ expression, she continued, “but he still doesn’t deserve to die.” She swallowed hard, shooting another glance at the picture. “None of these people deserve to die.”
“Maybe it’s karma.” Mark pulled the picture in front of him and his arms rested on either side of it, his fingers still drumming. The table jiggled rhythmically and Jessie knew without looking that Mark’s leg would be bouncing.
It would be so easy to agree. Jessie squared her shoulders. Easy was never the best option. “It probably is karma or payback or whatever the hell you want to call it, but there’s a reason you get these photos and dreams, Mark. You have this...gift—this power, to see the future.” He cringed at that, but Jessie forged on, “I don’t think you are supposed to pick and choose who you’ll save.”
Mark glared at her before shoving away from the table. He snagged his beer off the counter and stormed into the living room.
Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series) Page 36
