Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series)

by M. P. McDonald

  If only he could freeze time and stay in this moment right here on his parents' front porch forever. If only he could pretend that this was a normal visit. If only.

  Hands shoved in his jacket pockets, he trudged down the steps and around the corner to the shed. Already he could smell the sharp tang of fresh cut wood. He picked up a small branch that had fallen from the maple tree and threw it boomerang style at the trunk of the tree. It hit with a satisfying thwack.

  His steps slowed from a trudge to a shuffle as he approached the woodshed. He searched his mind for a good excuse to send his dad into the house first so he could retrieve the box and get the cash. All he needed was a couple of minutes to work the container from behind the loose board beneath the workbench. The whine of a circular saw interrupted his thoughts and he entered the shed just as half of a two-by-four hit the floor with a thump.

  His dad was examining the end left in his hand, picking off a sharp edge that remained. He lifted protective goggles, shoving them up on top of his head as he squinted at the board. Apparently satisfied, he blew the sawdust off it, his gaze rising to meet Mark's. If he was surprised, he hid it well.

  "Hi, Dad." His hands once again found his coat pockets.

  "Hello, Mark." He gave the board one final scrutiny before tossing it in a pile of similar sized pieces of wood.

  Mark looked from the pile to his dad. "What are you making?"

  "A planter for your mother."

  "Sounds nice. I bet she'll like it."

  His dad shrugged. "Probably." He pulled the goggles off and set them on top of the workbench. "What brings you out here?"

  Tipping his head towards the house, Mark said, "Cinnamon rolls. Mom said they were ready."

  His dad broke into a grin. "Well, what are we waiting for?"

  A few new projects occupied the back of the shed. A large chunk of wood cut in a single naturally-shaped slab rested against the wall. "Go ahead, Dad. I'll be right in. I just want to look at your new masterpieces."

  He had tried to make it sound lighthearted, but knew he'd failed miserably when his dad made no move to leave. Instead, he simply brushed some sawdust off the front of his flannel shirt, not taking too much care as several shavings remained, standing out against the dark blue of the flannel.

  "What's going on?"

  Mark closed his eyes, letting his chin drop as he gathered his thoughts. It was no use putting it off. "You know my camera was stolen a few weeks ago, right?"

  His dad leaned against the bench, his arms folded across his chest, and nodded.

  "Well, I’m still getting the dreams, even without the camera, and I dreamed about an 'L' track bombing,” Mark said.

  "I wondered if you had a hand in stopping that."

  A warm glow suffused Mark at the pride he heard in his dad's voice. Embarrassed, he shrugged and said, "I figured out where it might be and found it in time to warn the police. They did the hard part."

  "So what's the problem?"

  So much for the pride. Mark steeled his resolve to just get the truth out. It wouldn't become any easier if he put it off. He blew out a deep breath. "I had a dream last night that I was being arrested again. They said I had something to do with the bomb."

  "And so you ran?" His dad pushed off the bench, his hands fisted on his waist.

  Mark straightened, his muscles tensing. "I had no choice."

  His dad sighed and turned, pulling open a drawer in the bench. "I suppose you came out here looking for this?" He withdrew the container and tossed it on top of the bench.

  He should have known nothing would be safe from discovery in here. This was his father’s domain—he knew every nook and cranny.

  Mark simply nodded and reached for the container. “Yes. After the crap I’ve had to deal with the last few years, I thought it might be a good idea to have emergency funds in various places.” He opened the container and withdrew the money, shoving it into his pocket. “One thing I learned from Kern, is that he had at least a half-dozen aliases. I didn’t have time or connections to do that, but at least I was able to put aside some money.”

  “So what are we looking at? What kind of time frame? What do you need from me?"

  To Mark’s shock, his dad didn’t sound angry, just concerned. Confused, he took his time to consider his reply. He’d been prepared to defend himself, not ask for help. “I...I don’t really know.” His confusion cleared and he shook his head. “Actually, Dad, I do know. I can’t accept any help. That would only get you and Mom in trouble.”

  He wanted to add that it was enough that his father wanted to help, but the words lodged in his throat.

  His dad cleared his throat, the sound loud in the small shed. “Come on into the house. At least say good-bye to your mother.”

  Mark met his father’s eyes, wincing at the pain lurking—pain he’d caused. “I’m sorry.”

  His dad grasped him by the shoulder. “Don’t you dare be sorry, Mark. That would mean you were sorry for saving those people on the train. Do you regret that?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then don’t worry about it. You have to do what you have to do. Just remember, you’re the good guy.” He motioned for Mark to precede him out of the shed, sliding his arm to rest across Mark’s shoulders.

  The yellowed grass and the scattering of brown leaves became a wet blur as he walked with his father to the house. He didn’t dare raise his head as his chest burned with emotion. This would be hard enough on his mom. He had to hold it together for her sake.

  They stopped just before opening the door. His dad squeezed Mark’s shoulder. “You okay?”

  Sucking in a deep breath, he blinked hard and said, “Yeah. Fine.”

  “I was about to come searching for you guys.” His mom entered the hallway leading from the front door back to the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “Gene, did you show him your newest project?”

  “I did.” His dad’s arm fell from Mark‘s shoulders as he went ahead of Mark into the kitchen. He headed to the cupboard, pulling out three coffee mugs.

  “It looks great, Mom. I noticed the bench out front too.” Mark washed his hands, drying them on the towel his mom handed him. He ambled to the table, drawn by the scent emanating from the pan of rolls in the middle of it. Poking a finger at a roll, he popped his finger in his mouth and licked off the icing that clung to it.

  “Oh that’s right. Your father finished the bench a few weeks ago.” She slid a plate in front of him, and he helped himself to the roll he’d already touched.

  His dad brought coffee for all of them. Mark took a sip. The best he’d had in ages. The first bite of roll flooded his mouth with a burst of sweet vanilla frosting and cinnamon while filling his mind with memories of Christmas mornings. It was their tradition. No gifts could be opened until his mom popped the rolls she’d prepared the day before into the oven. As a child, he’d been so impatient, but the scent of them baking while they opened presents was indelibly intertwined in his Christmas memories.

  His mom dabbed her mouth with a paper napkin and said, “Where’s your car? I didn’t notice it outside.”

  He shot a glance at his dad, who gave a slight nod. Mark took a sip of his coffee, stalling as he decided how to start the conversation. “Mom, there’s something I have to tell you.”

  When he finished telling her, he took another gulp of his now lukewarm coffee as he attempted to ignore the tears in her eyes. ”You and Dad should go somewhere. Take a trip. Mo threatened you guys, and if anything happened to either of you...” The coffee threatened to come back up as he imagined the worst happening to his parents. Mark’s knee bounced as he gripped the coffee cup. He would find Mohommad first. That was all there was to it. And when he did, Mark vowed to make him pay for the hell he had put everyone through. His father‘s voice snapped him out of his fantasy of retribution.

  “Norma, it’ll be okay. This time, Mark has a chance to prove his innocence.” His father reached for his mother’s hand, holding
it in between both of his.

  She wiped her eyes, and then glared him. “This is wrong, Gene. How can they let the real terrorist waltz away and instead go after Mark? Instead of slapping handcuffs on him, they should be pinning medals to Mark’s chest.”

  Standing, she snatched her hand away and gathered up the dirty plates, setting them in the sink with a crash that made Mark wince.

  His dad sighed, shoved away from the table and crossed to where his mother stood at the sink. She stared out the window as she clutched the edge of the counter. He wrapped his arms around her from behind and rested his chin on top of her head. “It’ll work out. I promise you."

  Mark averted his gaze from the scene as a wave of guilt washed over him. He was close to drowning as he treaded water in an ocean of it. His dad promised his mother everything would be fine, but Mark knew better. When he was a kid, he thought his dad could fix everything, but he was grown now and knew his dad’s limitations. This time, as much as his father might wish he could make everything better, he was even more powerless than Mark.

  He glanced at the clock. It was noon. The longer he remained here, the more risk he took of capture. “I have to get going.”

  His parents turned to him, his mother’s face streaked with tears, but she nodded. “Yes, you have to find that bastard, Mohommad.”

  Mark cracked a tiny smile at his mother’s terminology. “Will you guys go somewhere? I don’t know if I can focus if I’m worried about Mohommad paying a visit here."

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got my hunting rifles, and I’m still a damn good shot."

  ”He could break in during the night or something. What good is a rifle in close quarters?” The phone rang and his dad gave him a look of relief as he rushed to answer it, as though glad he had a good excuse to avoid the question. Mark turned to his mother. ”Mom, talk some sense into him.”

  At first, she appeared as stubborn as his father, but she caved after a few moments. ”Fine. We‘re not afraid of him though. I just can‘t say no when you look at me like that.”

  His dad strode back into the room. “Mark, you have bigger worries than Mohommad. That was Special Agent Sheridan, from the F.B.I. Isn’t he the guy who—“

  “Yeah, he’s the interrogator from the brig,” Mark cut in. He could sense his dad about to going off on a tangent and he needed to know why Jim called. “What did he want?”

  “That’s the thing. He didn’t seem to want anything. Just said he was looking for you, and that we should let you know that.”

  Shit! Had they found him already? “Did he ask if you had seen me?”

  His dad shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “No, that’s what was so strange. I was prepared to lie, but he didn’t ask me anything I had to lie about.”

  Was Jim trying to send a warning?

  “I gotta get going.” Mark pulled his mom into a hug, and planted a quick kiss on her cheek. ”And you guys have to get out of here too. I’m just going to run up and get some of my things from my old room. I couldn’t risk taking anything from my loft. I wanted to buy as much time as I could and hope they’ll just think I’m out in the city somewhere. I guess my strategy didn’t work.”

  His old backpack he used when hunting with his dad was in the closet, and he stuffed a change of clothes into it along with a sweatshirt. As he closed the dresser drawer, the empty spot from where the sweatshirt had been caught his eye. He quickly re-arranged the drawer so it didn’t look like something had just been removed. Just in case the F.B.I. made a surprise visit here. Next, he went to the bathroom and opened the linen closet and found the shaving kit he kept here and tossed it into the pack.

  By the time he went downstairs, his parents had composed themselves. His mom handed him a brown bag. “Just sandwiches and cookies. I also wrapped up a couple of the rolls.”

  It was almost his undoing. He took the bag and pulled her close, burying his face in her neck. “Bye, Mom.” He wanted to reassure her, but his throat closed up.

  His dad stood beside them, and Mark turned to him, ready to shake hands, but his dad drew him into a quick hard hug, then thrust him at arm’s length and shoved another bag at him. “Here.”

  The bag was heavy. Heavier than it should have been for the size. He unrolled the top and peered inside, his mouth dropping open as he realized what it held. A gun and a box of clips. He pushed the bag back into his dad‘s hands. “I can’t take this.” He stared at his father. “Where in the hell did you get a handgun? And why?”

  “It doesn’t matter where I got it. After that cult incident, I bought one in case one of those nuts came up here. Or some other nut.”

  “I can’t shoot anyone, Dad.”

  “I’m not saying you should, but you already said that Mohommad threatened you with a gun. What are you going to do, just find him and ask him to give you the camera back, pretty please?”

  Mark tried to ignore his dad’s tone. His intentions were good. He attempted to force him to accept the bag back, but his father ignored it. “I don’t know what I’m going to do yet, but if the FBI knows I’m armed, they’ll probably shoot me on sight.”

  His dad blanched, but then shook his head and gripped Mark’s shoulders. “Then, you can’t let them find you. I can’t let you face a terrorist unarmed. Last time, Mohommad let you go, but do you really think he’ll do that again? He already has the camera, and he must know by now that you had a hand in preventing the bombing of the train track. Don’t you understand, Mark? You are a liability.” He released his grip, but stabbed a finger into Mark’s chest. “You make the camera useless to Mohommad and whomever he works for, if every time they use it, you dream about their atrocities and try to prevent whatever they have planned.”

  Mark considered his dad’s words. He was right. Reluctantly, he took the bag and buried it in the bottom of the backpack. “I hate to involve you any more than I already have, but do you think you could drop me off at the bus station?”

  “Sure, but where will you go?"

  Mark hesitated. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his parents. He knew they would never betray him, but if confronted with either authorities or, god forbid, Mo, he thought it would be better for them to be able to claim innocence. “I can’t tell you."

  “Listen, Mark. If you get in trouble, nobody else in the world will have an inkling of where you are. You don’t have to give me your whole itinerary, just a hint."

  “Fine." He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I wish I had an itinerary, but I’m flying by the seat of my pants here, Dad. Mo had a sister in Schaumburg. If I can remember where her house is, I’ll see if she’s seen him or has any idea where he might be. They used to be close. I don’t know what, if anything, she’ll tell me, but it’s my only lead." He thought for a moment and said, “I’ll get one of those cheap cellphones and call you when I get a chance. It’s the best I can do.”

  His dad nodded and reached into his front pocket, pulling out his key ring, pressing it into Mark’s hand. “Take my car. We can use your mother’s. In the meantime, I’ll take your mom to your cousin Debbie’s house, until this is resolved. She’s been begging your mom to come and see the new baby. I’m coming back here though in case the F.B.I. or police stop by. I don’t want it to look suspicious. I can handle Mo.” His tone brooked no argument. “Call my cell phone. You know the number?”

  Mark nodded.

  His father rubbed his chin and switched topics. “The police may spot my car and I’m sure they’ll put out an APB on it, but, it’s a common make and model. You should make it back to Chicago with no problem. You’re also in luck. I just filled it up yesterday. If you have to, just leave it in a parking lot somewhere.”

  Mark clenched the keys until the metal dug into his palm. He blinked hard and said, “Tell them I stole it, Dad. Promise me that. I don’t want you getting in trouble for me.”

  “That’s my worry, now get out of here.”

  Chapter 15

  Jim strode through the office, b
riefcase clutched in one hand, a tall black coffee in the other. He stifled a yawn, wishing he could have napped on the plane while taking the eight a.m. flight home from D.C, but a crying baby two rows over had made it impossible. Poor little guy kept tugging on his ears, so Jim couldn’t be angry, but still, some rest would have been nice. He’d counted on the nap, in fact. He should have known better.

  It was only mid-morning, but he felt like a tardy school boy, even if he did have an ironclad reason for coming in late to work. In fact, he wasn’t supposed to be here at all. By rights, he was supposed to still be in D.C. attending several more meetings, but with the bombing attempt, he had requested permission to return to his office today.

  If he had come back the same day as the ‘L’ train incident like he’d wanted to, he was convinced none of this would have happened. Instead, since everything had turned out okay in Chicago, he had been forced to remain and complete his business. The president himself had ordered a task force to see if the FBI and CIA could cooperate and join together to form a new unit that would oversee interrogations. Jim had been handpicked to be on the task force due to his experience in the CIA, interrogations, and now as head of the Chicago FBI. He had a unique perspective of both agencies, so he’d been required to remain. That didn’t mean he didn’t chafe at the order to stay in D.C. while his city was in danger.

  That thought brought a brief smile to his face. Since when had he considered Chicago home? It had only been a few years, but he supposed he had more true connections here than he had anywhere since he was in college. He set his briefcase beside his desk and removed his jacket, draping it over the back of his chair before sitting. The task force stuff could wait. Peeling back the plastic on his coffee lid, he took a sip, savoring the rich taste and the heat. It was colder here than it had been in D.C. and he hadn’t brought an overcoat. Walking out to the parking area at the airport for his car, the wind had been brutal.