Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series)

by M. P. McDonald

  She closed the door behind him and extended her hand towards the sofa in the front room. Canned laughter from a sitcom drifted into the room from farther back in the house. “Please, have a seat. Would you like something to drink? I have iced tea or soda.”

  His mouth still dry from nerves, he nodded. “Sure. Pop would be great—whatever you have.”

  Too keyed up to sit, he wandered to the fireplace, drawn by the array of framed photos lined up along the mantle. He smiled at the cute pictures of the girls at various ages, and noted the stern-faced man in Zaira’s wedding photograph. Mark vaguely recalled meeting him and wondered if he was the one watching the sitcom. Somehow, he didn’t seem the type.

  Zaira returned and set a tray loaded with two glasses and a plate of snack crackers on the coffee table. “Come. Sit and talk to me.”

  “Thank you.” Mark crossed the room and sat on the chair flanking the sofa. He sipped the soft drink, then set it on the table, taking a moment to decide what he wanted to say. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows across his knees, hands loosely clasped, and said, “Zaira, I have to be upfront with you. I believe at the moment, I’m wanted by the FBI. I don’t think they’ll track me here, at least not so soon, but I thought I should give you fair warning.”

  The carpet beneath his feet, with its blood red designs, were reminiscent of rugs he’d seen in the Afghanistan bazaar where he had purchased the camera. The camera had led him down a path that was as twisted and complicated as red trails cutting through the sand colored fibers.

  His life now intertwined with so many, and he must be crazy to add Zaira to the mix. Would this complicate things even further? Had coming here been a mistake? Mohommad was her brother. Why should she tell Mark anything, or even worse, what if she called the police? Or what if the F.B.I. found him here? She and her children could be in danger. Mark closed his eyes for a moment, blocking out the carpet and mentally putting the rush of what ifs behind a barricade. With a small shake of his head, he raised his gaze to find Zaira watching him, curious, but not alarmed.

  He added, “I wouldn’t have come here if I hadn’t been desperate. The last thing I want to do is drag you and your family into my mess. Still, I can’t be positive that the FBI won’t barge in, so if you want me to leave now, I would certainly understand.”

  Zaira perched on the edge of the sofa, her legs gracefully angled to the right as she cradled her drink in her hands. Her eyes sparked with anger, belying the calm façade. “I am no stranger to the F.B.I. or the other various government agencies. When Mohommad was imprisoned, they visited me numerous times and read my letters to my brother. The few I received from him were almost impossible to read, so much of them had been blacked out. Rest assured, Mark— I have no love for these agencies.” Regret dimmed the anger as she added, “However, I will not lie to them.”

  Mark straightened. “No—of course not. I wouldn’t want you to. Not for my sake, anyway.”

  She tilted her head. “So why are they after you...this time?”

  “It’s a long story.” He sagged against the cushions, the stress of the last few days taking a toll. Rubbing the back of his neck, he strove to organize his thoughts, but weariness added a layer of fog to his thinking.

  He barely knew Zaira. Would she side with her brother or listen with an open mind? For that matter, she didn’t know him either. Why should she believe anything he said? So far, she had hinted that she knew about Mo’s betrayal, but still, Mo was her blood, her family.

  “I’m listening.”

  He glanced at the ceiling as the light patter of small feet raced overhead. It set his mind at ease that the girls wouldn’t overhear. Zaira must have caught his look and said, “I sent the girls up to get ready for bed. I will have to go settle them in a few minutes, but they know better than to come down and interrupt.”

  Mark nodded. “I bolted before they could arrest me, but my guess is…” He hesitated, his future hinged on her reaction to what he was about to reveal. He took a deep breath before plunging ahead with the rest. “They believe I had something to do with the attempted ‘L’ bombing.”

  “Why would they think that?”

  Her matter-of-fact tone caught him by surprise. Best case scenario, he’d expected her to toss him out after admitting the magnitude of the crime he was wanted for. Worst case, she’d call the police immediately. “I think they’ll always be suspicious of me after the 9/11 accusations.”

  “But you are free now, so they must have cleared you.”

  “Cleared? Not so much. More like they couldn’t force me to confess, and had very little evidence.” He sat forward with his elbows propped on his knees and hands clasped in front of his mouth as he decided how to broach the subject of Mo and his role in Mark’s imprisonment. “When you invited me in, you mentioned that Mohommad’s lies had to do with me going to prison before. Why did you say that? Have you spoken to him?”

  She set her glass down, and rubbed her hands together. “No…well, not for a few years. When he was first released, he called me from Afghanistan. He wanted me to move my family back there.” She shuddered. “I said no way would I ever take my daughters to Afghanistan. They were born here. Our father brought us here when I was about twelve, but he was even younger, which is unfortunate.” Zaira sighed.

  “Unfortunate? How?”

  “He doesn’t remember what it was like. I do, although as a boy, it was different for him, so maybe he just doesn’t know any better. He has this idealized vision of a powerful Afghanistan, and blames the U.S. for all its problems. Our uncle encourages Mohommad’s anger. He’s stuffed my brother’s head with talk of violence.”

  Tears filled her eyes when she lifted her gaze. “Our father would be so ashamed and disappointed. He worked and struggled so we could have opportunities. He risked everything because he thought we were worth it, and my brother has thrown away this great gift.” She wiped her eyes, but the corner of her mouth curved up as she chuckled. “I’m sorry. I guess I’ve had no one to talk to about this and I got side-tracked. Mohommad told me you were still in prison because you had traveled to Afghanistan with him, and introduced him to the leaders of an al-Qaeda group. He said he tried to stop you, but you had agreed to photograph Chicago sites for the group in exchange for money and wanted him to do the same.”

  Mark dropped his head and twined his fingers behind his neck, surprised that Mo’s lies still hurt so much. It was one thing to hear Mo’s accusations from an interrogator, but it was a totally different ballgame to hear it from Zaira. Despite what Mo had done recently, Mark had clung to a sliver a hope that his former friend hadn’t betrayed him, but had only made up the accusations under the duress of torture. Zaira had no incentive to lie to him.

  He buried the pain beneath a deep layer of anger as he stood and paced to the window. Sticking a finger between the slats of the blind, he surveyed the cul-de-sac. His car remained the only one on the street. Mark turned back to Zaira. “None of it is true. I know he’s your brother, but I swear I never spoke to anyone from al-Qaeda.” He took a few steps towards her. “No way would I do anything like that.”

  Zaira nodded. “I don’t know why Mohommad said those things. When I tried to question him, he cut me off, and said I had forgotten my roots and had become too American.” She stood and wrapped her arms around herself as though chilly. Picking up a framed photograph from an end table, and as she gazed at it, an expression of grief flashed in her eyes, and she hugged the photo to her. “He even insinuated that my husband’s death was my punishment.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Mark felt like an insensitive idiot. His own troubles were insignificant compared to the loss of a spouse.

  Zaira set the picture down. “Thank you. Of course you didn’t know. How could you? It happened three years ago, and I believe you were still in prison then.”

  “I was.” He jammed his hands in his pockets. “I have to get going. I shouldn’t have intruded.”

  A look of puzzlement
in her eyes, Zaira moved towards him. “But you haven’t asked me whatever it was that brought you here.”

  Mark hesitated. She had enough to deal with. Adding to her burden was the last thing he wanted to do. “It’s not important. I should get going.”

  “Mark, you took a big risk coming here with the FBI on your trail, the least you could do is ask the questions that brought you to my door.”

  It came out in a rush. He hadn’t lied about having to go. He was already feeling like he’d stayed in one place too long. “I just wanted to know if you’d seen Mohommad lately or knew where he might be.”

  “Why?”

  The question was so short and blunt, it took Mark by surprise. “He has something of mine that I need back.”

  “You’re not going to hurt him are you? He’s still my brother, in spite of the way he’s behaved.”

  “I don’t intend to hurt him. I don’t want any of this to be happening, but it’s very important that I get back what he has.”

  Her brows rose in question. “What does he have that is so important?”

  “It’s a camera—a very special camera. If I don’t get it back, there’s no telling what might happen.”

  Clearly confused, she put her hands on her hips. “What’s so special about this camera, and why does Mohommad have it?”

  Mark gestured towards the sofa. “Maybe we should sit again. This isn’t going to be quick.”

  Zaira resumed her seat on the edge of the sofa and Mark took the side chair. “I know it’s going to sound nuts, but this camera shows future images, and when it’s activated, meaning, when someone uses it, I get dreams of whatever is on the film. Future photos, but it’s always a picture of a tragedy. A kid hit by a car, or a man shot in a robbery, accidental electrocutions—pretty much any kind of tragedy you can imagine. I don’t know how or why it happens, and why some tragedies are shown and others aren’t, but when I realized what the images and dreams were, I began to intervene. I didn’t expect that I could change anything. I mean, it sounds crazy, right?” Mark shrugged. “But as insane as it sounds, when I use the camera, between the photos and the dreams, I usually have enough information to stop what’s shown to me.”

  “Usually?”

  “Yes. Usually. Sometimes, the event is too big for me to stop it alone. That’s what happened on 9/11 and sent me down,” Mark tilted his head to the right, “…that road.”

  He didn’t have time to get into all that had happened to him before, so he cut to the chase. “Mo visited me a few weeks ago. Only it wasn’t to renew our friendship, it was to acquire the camera. He’d learned of it while he was in prison too. Apparently, interrogators are free to share information with other prisoners.” He tried to joke about the last part, but failed when bitterness leached into the words in spite of his intentions. Picking up his abandoned glass, he swallowed the rest in a long gulp, as though hoping to wash the resentment away with the sweet drink. The ice clinked as he set the glass down. “He forced me to turn over the camera. It’s bad enough that I don’t have it anymore—already a few people have died that I might have saved—but he’s using it too. Only I don’t imagine he’s trying to save anyone, and I’m still getting the dreams. I suppose he could be dreaming too, but I don’t think so. I dreamed about the ‘L’ bombing, and had just enough time to find the bomb and show police—only now they think I had something to do with it.”

  “Do you think Mohommad was behind the bomb?”

  Mark scrubbed a hand down his face and sighed. How could he tell Zaira that he suspected her brother was not only behind the bomb, but was a full-fledged terrorist? “I don’t know, but I do know that if there’s another attack, I’ll never get anyone to believe me without the photographs.”

  Zaira rose and moved to the mantle, staring at the knickknacks decorating the shelf, but didn’t seem to see any of them. She crossed her arms, one hand to her mouth as she nibbled on a fingernail. Finally, she lifted one shoulder in a shrug, the mannerism a feminine version of Mo’s. “I have not heard from my brother in months. He’s not allowed into the country.” She chuckled, but there was no amusement in her eyes as she faced Mark. “I guess he got around that requirement somehow. You see, he was released, but it was on the condition that he remain in Afghanistan. If he’s caught here, I’m afraid they’ll lock him up again, and this time, he’ll never get out.” Tears welled again. “Even if I knew where he was, how can I turn him in when I know there will be no trial? He’s my brother and the closest family I have left.”

  The image of the cell he’d called home for fifteen months flashed in Mark’s mind. He could almost smell the stale stench of sweat, urine and disinfectant that had permeated the stark room. His breathing quickened and his hands clenched as he fought off the flood of memories before they sucked him into a full-blown flashback. He stood and crossed to her, the pain in her expression hitting him like a blow to the chest. “Zaira, I only want the camera and to talk to Mohommad. Maybe I can get him to go back to Afghanistan. He somehow stole into the country; he can sneak back out if he wants to. I swear I won’t tell anyone.” He meant it too. As much anger as he held towards Mo, he couldn’t sentence him to more time in hell.

  Zaira shook her head. “He won’t want to go back. My uncles have turned him against the U.S. and if I know them, they will have made him feel like a failure for being taken alive the first time. I’m afraid he’s on a suicide mission now.” The tears tracked down her cheeks and Mark wished he’d never come and caused her this pain.

  “I’m sorry.” He reached out and touched her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her, but let his hand drop to his side, unable to complete the gesture. Already he’d caused enough grief; he didn’t think sympathy from him would be welcome.

  She noticed his attempt and gave him a wan smile. “It’s okay, Mark. It’s not your fault, and I don’t blame you.” Wiping her eyes, she crossed to an elegant desk in a corner of the room. “I’m not sure if what I have will help you find Mohommad, but it might. He had a lot of friends…before.” After poking through a few drawers, she withdrew a small spiral notebook. “I have some addresses of people he knew in here. I compiled them for the FBI when Mohommad was first imprisoned, but they never came to collect it. I guess they got their answers elsewhere. Now you can use it to possibly find him. Kind of ironic, don’t you think?”

  Mark took the notebook, but could only manage a nod in response. His throat felt swollen and it hurt to swallow. He took several deep breaths, before he was able to speak again. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m doing it for my brother as much as you.

  She nodded and turned away. He took that as his cue, went to the front door, checking the street for any cars or observers, but only friendly jack-o’lanterns watched his departure.

  Chapter 17

  After leaving Zaira’s, Mark was at loose ends and had no idea what to do next. It was almost ten P.M and fatigue burned his eyes. He wasn’t sure what he’d hoped to learn from Zaira, but perhaps some part of him suspected that Mo would be hiding out there. Stupid idea. Of course Mo wouldn’t stay with his sister, and as soon as Mark had seen the little girls, he had known it in his gut.

  One thing Mo had cherished was his family. When he and Mark had traveled through Afghanistan, Mark had been appalled at the treatment of the women in the country, and while Mo had seemed to share his sentiments, he had also pointed out that Americans weren’t perfect. Mo had spoken of the tough time he’d had when his family first emigrated to the U.S. Kids in school had made fun of the way he and his sister dressed and their thick accents. Consequently, they had become champions for each other. There was nothing Mo wouldn’t do for his sister and his nieces, or at least, that had been the case before September 11th. Somehow, Mark didn’t see Mo taking the risk of bringing danger to Zaira’s doorstep.

  Regretting the lost time with nothing gained but a few addresses, Mark continued to drive aimlessly, but when a cop ended up beside him at a stoplight, it
hit him what a chance he was taking. All it would take would for him to forget to signal a turn or roll through a stop sign, and he would have no chance at all of getting the camera back. He almost pulled into a parking lot for a bar, just to get the car off the road, but he dismissed the idea. Police kept an especially close eye on cars leaving bars. It would help if he had a plan and knew where to go, but there hadn’t been time to draw up a plan. If only he’d had a chance to speak to Jessie this morning. Things had just been starting to get back to normal, or at least as normal as anything could ever be for Mark, and when Jessie had met him for dinner, the spark was still there.

  Jessie had been his sounding board in difficult situations before, but she was not just a cop anymore, now she was literally the enemy. His other instinct was to consult Jim, but that was out for obvious reasons. Still, it didn’t stop the longing to call one or both of them. Would Jessie turn him in? He was certain she wouldn’t think he was a terrorist, but she might try to convince him to turn himself in and trust in the system. Mark pounded a fist on the dash. If only it was that simple, but he’d been there, done that and got the orange t-shirt.

  His heart nearly stopped beating when lights flashed in his review mirror, but his heart resumed pumping, even adding a flurry of extra beats when he realized the lights were the red lights of an ambulance, not the blue of a CPD patrol car. When the pounding in his chest eased, he ran a shaky hand through his hair and resumed his death grip on the wheel. He had to get off the damn road before he was either pulled over or had a heart attack. Deciding to hide in plain sight, he followed the squad, but he turned right into the emergency room lot and found a parking space not too close to the hospital, and tucked between two sports utility vehicles. He’d be out of sight of the road, and not easy to spot from anywhere but directly behind the car. Reaching down, he flicked the radio on and found a news station. Fingers drumming, he listened through a weather report. He made a mental note of a cold front moving through. He might need to acquire some warmer clothes, but for now, he was more interested in whether or not the police had gone to the media with the story. If they had, his chance of finding Mo and retrieving the camera would be next to nil. It had only been the last month or so that he’d been able to walk down the street or go into a store without someone recognizing him from the Kern debacle and if this story went public, he might as well wear a flashing neon target on his back.