Crap. He’d forgotten about them. He looked over his shoulder to the kitchen door. “Is my dad still around?” What his father didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
“No. He went out to use your camera, then was going to get the film developed someplace that could do it in an hour.” Jim glanced at his watch. “So, given he left a few hours ago, he should be back soon. It’s getting kind of late and I imagine most places he could get the film developed will close soon.”
“Okay, good. I’m going to take a shower and play dumb about the stitches.”
Jim shrugged. “It’s your head and your father. Towels are in the linen closet. I’ll grab you some of my old sweats and leave them outside the door of the bathroom. If you’re up to it, I have some disposable razors in the medicine cabinet.”
Thirty minutes later, he emerged feeling ten times better. He’d even managed to shave, only nicking himself a few times. He’d patted the stitches dry as best he could and just hoped his dad wouldn’t notice.
Jim sat in a recliner, feet up and a file of some sort open on his lap. He glanced in Mark’s direction and said, “Feeling better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” He looked for the glass he’d been drinking from, but it was gone. “You mind if I help myself to something to drink?”
“Be my guest. I made some fresh coffee too.”
Coffee. He could almost feel a jolt of energy just from thinking about the first sip. He should probably stick to the other stuff, but caffeine was medicinal to his way of thinking. Besides, he felt a lot better since he’d downed the last glass of sports drink. Returning a few minutes later, he cradled the mug as he sat on the edge of the couch, elbows propped on his legs. “So? What happens now?”
“We wait until Gene returns with the photos.”
“What if there isn’t anything important on them? That happens sometimes.” Mark took a sip, set the cup down, and clasped his hands, one in a fist, the other wrapped over it. He couldn’t even look at Jim, dreading the answer and not wanting to see it written on the other man’s face. No way would he go meekly to be thrown into the brig again. No. Damn. Way. He took a deep breath and said, “What’s going to happen to me? Chicago PD wants me dead or alive.”
“No they don’t.” Jim set a paper back in the folder and closed it. “Not the dead part, anyway. They want to question you, of that there’s no doubt, but they don’t want you dead.”
“Really?” Mark raised an eyebrow as he slanted a glance at Jim. “And was there an engraved invitation to meet with them on that bullet they sent to my head? ‘Cause if there was, I missed it.”
Jim levered the recliner to a sitting position, sat forward and dropped the cream-colored folder on the coffee table with a sigh. “That was just an unfortunate reflex on the part of the officer. You looked to be reaching for something, and that kind of action will put a cop on alert. I think sun glinted off the camera. That, coupled with your sudden movement was all it took. The officer mistook your actions, thinking you were going for a gun, and fired. Pure survival instincts. Besides, it doesn’t matter because I’m not turning you in.”
“I don’t get it. Why would you do that? I don’t know much about FBI policies, but I can’t believe they’d condone hiding a fugitive.”
Jim gave a snort, one corner of his mouth turning up. “That’s true, but like I’ve been told before, I owe you one.”
“More than one.”
“Don’t push it, Taylor,” Jim warned, but his eyes crinkled.
“Seriously, Jim. I know what you’re doing can’t be considered regulation. I’m already screwed, but I don’t want you throwing your career down the toilet because of this.”
Jim took a deep breath, his expression becoming serious as he tapped the folder. “Do you know what this is?” Before Mark could reply, he answered his own question, “It’s my resignation.”
Stunned, Mark stared at Jim. “Why?”
“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t submit it just yet. I want to keep some advantage on our side.”
Our side? Had he heard correctly? “Look, Jim. I appreciate everything you’ve done here today, so don’t get me wrong, but I can’t let you destroy everything you’ve worked your whole career to achieve. You’re in charge—”
Jim cut in, “I don’t need your permission, Mark.”
Mark narrowed his eyes, his jaw tensing as he gave a short nod. “Fine. It’s your life. Screw it up all you want, but I’m not going to be the cause of it. I’ll turn myself in first.” He stood and looked for the phone.
“Sit down. Even if you called a SWAT team down here right now to take you into custody, I’d still resign—it’s not about you. I have my own reasons, but I will admit that all of the…excitement, the last few days, did add impetus to my decision.”
Resuming his seat, he tried a different approach. “But I have the camera back and—”
The grind of the garage door cut-off Mark’s reply. He started and turned towards the sound.
Some of the apprehension he felt must have shown on his face because Jim held up his hand in a ‘calm down’ motion and said, “I let him use my car, just in case anyone was watching. He parked his own car around the block.”
Even though logically Mark recognized that Jim was probably right, the twenty seconds it took for his dad to get from the garage into the living room were some of the longest of his life.
“Mark…you’ve cleaned up. I hope you didn’t get those stitches wet.” His father breezed into the room, bringing with him a blast of cooler air from the garage. He held a photo envelope under one arm and had the camera looped over his shoulder. He set the envelope and a key ring down on the table, his eyebrow arched in Mark’s direction.
“Uh…I forgot, but I dried them as good as I could.” He ignored the soft snicker from Jim as the other man bent to get his mug from the coffee table.
“Well, what’s done is done. You look human again.”
Jim sat back in the recliner, feet crossed at the ankle as he droned, “Smells human again too.”
“Yeah, Mark. I meant to ask you about that. What did you do? Roll around in a trash heap?”
Thinking he might very well have crashed into a few garbage cans as he stumbled down the alley before spotting the open garage door, Mark just shrugged and reached for his coffee. The rejuvenating effects of the shower were beginning to wear off and he grimaced at the increased pounding in his head. The relative ease between his father and Jim surprised Mark. When had they joined forces?
A wave of fatigue washed over him. Carefully setting the mug down in hopes neither man would see his shaking hands, he said, “Look you guys, I’m not sure I can handle the tag teaming right now, so Dad, if you could just show me the photos you took…”
His dad gave him an appraising look and then moved around the coffee table to stand beside him. He took Mark’s chin in one hand and removed a penlight from his shirt pocket with the other. He tilted Mark’s head. “Look straight ahead.”
Mark winced as the beam of light seemed to pierce his skull. He tried to pull his head away, but his dad’s grip tightened.
“Now follow my finger.”
Mark sighed and did as directed.
“No, just with your eyes. Keep your head still.”
The eye movement added to the pain level, but he must have passed whatever test his dad had given him because he released Mark’s chin and sat beside him. He picked up the photo envelope and slid four prints out.
“I think these might be future photos because they aren’t at all what I took pictures of. These are the only ones out of the roll of 24 that came out differently. The others are still in there, but I separated these for you.”
“This first one is just a bus. I almost left it with the others, but I couldn’t remember taking a picture of a school bus, so there you go.”
Mark glanced at it, also unsure what it could mean. It was a run-of-the-mill school bus, but there was no company or district name on the side. He set it aside to take the second pictur
e. This one was more interesting. The bus was now in front of Navy Pier at the entrance for the Children’s Museum. The sky was bright, but it was going to be a cold day judging from how bundled the Pier visitors appeared. Mark knew the wind could be brutal as it sped unobstructed off the lake, and the American flag on the left of the picture was standing almost straight out, showing proof of the conditions. The angle of the shadows indicated mid-morning.
“Here are the worst ones.”
The next photo showed the bus, or what was left of it—just an axle with one melted wheel—alongside the building. A huge crumbling hole scarred the Children’s Museum and black smoke billowed out. Sickened, he wanted to fling the photo away, but instead, he clutched it and studied it trying to commit every detail to memory. He couldn’t let any clues escape his notice. The photos showed where, and a rough estimate of when, but who was still a mystery. Mark felt in his gut it was Mo, but a gut feeling wasn’t enough.
Jim took the photo from Mark. He didn’t speak for a moment, but the hard glacial expression that settled in his eyes sent a chill down Mark’s spine. He’d seen that look before during interrogations, and was thankful it wasn’t directed at him this time.
The last print showed the walking wounded, and behind them, laid out on the blocked off road, were rows of body bags. Police and fire department personnel dashed about within a large area condoned off with yellow tape. Debris littered the ground. Thousands of sheets of paper, parts of exhibits and building material littered the area. A piece of debris caught his eye. Mark held the photo closer and squinted, trying to make out a twisted piece of metal with a small wheel sticking up in the air at about waist height. With a shudder, he finally realized what it was—the frame of a stroller. Closing his eyes briefly, he prayed it had been empty when the bomb exploded. He set the picture down and bent his head, resting it on his clasped hands until he worked up the will to force himself to resume his examination. At least fifty bags were visible in the photo and who knew how many more weren’t in the picture?
Overwhelmed and feeling like someone was driving a spike into his skull, he let the print slide out of his grasp and onto the table. Elbows on his knees, he cradled his head again and tried to fight the impulse to block the images from his mind. This rivaled the Wrigley Field photos for effect they had on him. Only 9/11 had stunned him more, but with those photos, disbelief at the carnage had colored his view. He was sure he would be able to stop it with a few phone calls, and so the sick fear he had felt had been tempered by his self-assurance that the pictures wouldn’t come true. After all, he had been successful in every attempt at changing the outcome of the photos prior to that day.
The couch sagged and a second later, a familiar hand squeezed his shoulder. His dad didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. Never very demonstrative, his simple gesture spoke volumes and filled Mark with a renewed sense of purpose. They would stop this.
For a good five minutes, nobody spoke. Jim continued to examine each photo, and quickly shuffled through the ones that were unrelated, apparently finding nothing of importance. His father sat beside Mark for a couple of minutes more, but didn’t look at the photos again. With a final squeeze and pat of Mark’s shoulder, he stood with a heavy sigh and went into the kitchen.
“I think we can stop this one pretty easily. We’ll just block off the street in front of Navy Pier and put out an APB on an unmarked school bus. Too bad we can’t see the license plate or any identifying numbers, but just the fact that there don’t appear to be any markings will stand out.” Jim held up the first photo and pointed to the blank side of the bus. He pulled the photo in for a closer look. “Hold on. Somewhere around here, I have some reading glasses that can act as magnifiers.”
Mark nodded, but he wasn’t convinced. It sounded too easy. “I think this is Mo’s work. He all but admitted to me that he planted the bomb under the ‘L’ track, so I know he’s capable of it. If he is responsible, he knows I have the camera and the dreams. He’ll be on the lookout for a police presence. If he gets spooked, who’s to say he won’t turn the bus around and blow it up outside the Art Institute, or even in the middle of Michigan Avenue?”
Jim turned the icy look on him as if Mark had masterminded the plot himself.
Mark shifted on the sofa, but held Jim’s gaze, refusing to be intimidated. “Hey, I’m playing the devil’s advocate here. I just have a feeling, and I’ve been doing this long enough now that I trust my instincts.”
Breaking eye contact, Jim blew out a deep breath and nodded in acceptance. “I just want it to be cut and dried, but I should know better. While you were sleeping, Jessica called me with some pertinent information. It seems Mohommad paid his sister a visit earlier today. We now have an eyewitness besides you who can place him in the Chicago area. According to Zaira, he was extremely angry and she feared he was planning something, but she didn’t know what it was. Oh, and she admitted to speaking with you and giving you an address book.”
“Zaira won’t get into any trouble for that, will she?”
“No, we can work out something since she came forward with this new information. Don’t worry about it.” He stood, crossed to the bookshelf and found the glasses. Returning to his chair, he held the glasses a few inches above the first photo. “I thought I saw a shadow that could be the driver.”
Mark slid to the end of the sofa closest to Jim and leaned over to see through the lenses too. It wasn’t as strong as the magnifying lens he would have used in his studio, but it did enlarge the details somewhat. “I see what you’re saying. There’s someone there and it looks like a man with dark hair.”
“You think it could be Mohommad?”
“I can’t be one hundred percent sure, but his hair is short now, and the shadow man has short, dark hair. Of course so do a million other men in Chicago. Hell, I have short dark hair.”
Jim threw him a speculative look. “Hmmm…”
Mark rolled his eyes. “Knock it off. You have short dark hair too.”
“Okay, so what do you propose we do?”
It felt unnatural to take the lead in this situation. He had always been the one delivering the information, but Jim had been the one to act on matters like this. Still, for several years now he had been taking care of the plenty of impending incidents with no help at all. His confidence had grown with each one, but he wouldn’t have a clear idea of what to do until after he dreamed. “I can’t say for sure yet.” He chuckled and said, “I’ll sleep on it.” His joke fell flat and it was Jim’s turn to roll his eyes.
“Here, Mark.”
Mark turned to find his father beside him holding a couple of pills and a glass of water. “More already?” As bad as the headache was, he didn’t want to risk taking something that might hinder or inhibit his dreams.
“It’s just ibuprofen. It should help control your headache so you can get some real sleep.”
His dad had a point. The way he felt now, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to sleep, as tired as he was. As he reached for the tablets, his stomach growled. His dad pulled back the pills and frowned. “You should take these with food. When was the last time you ate?”
Mark had to think about it. “I guess this morning.”
“No wonder you’re so shaky. We need to get some food into you.”
The thought of food repulsed him. “I don’t know if I can eat anything.”
“Didn’t you say you bought crackers, Jim?”
Jim stood and said, “I did. And I have peanut butter or some cheese. I think I even have a frozen pizza I could toss in the oven. I’m kind of hungry too.”
Pizza didn’t appeal to him at all, but Mark thought he could stomach crackers and peanut butter. He followed them into the kitchen, sitting heavily at the table. How was he going to be able to stop a terrorist attack tomorrow when walking 30 feet left him feeling like he’d just slogged five miles through a bog?
Jim started the oven and pulled the pizza out of the freezer. “You didn’t have to get up
, Mark. I’d have brought you a plate.”
Mark lifted his head off his hand, surprised and a little suspicious of Jim’s hospitality. “Who are you, and where’s the Jim I first met in the brig?” The light-hearted tone he’d meant to impart on the question didn’t quite match the reality and Jim paused as he tore the cellophane off the pizza.
“Actually, I guess I’ve changed. It was bad luck for you that you came through the Charleston brig not long after my divorce was finalized. I was…hmm…let’s just say I was more than a little bitter.” He slid the pizza into the oven and turned back to Mark. “That doesn’t mean I did anything I shouldn’t have. I followed protocol to the letter.”
“Yeah, don’t I know it.” Mark rested his head on his hand again. “Sheesh, I bet lots of guys would love to have your job after getting a divorce. What a way to work out anger. It was just my luck to draw you as my interrogator.” He was only partially kidding.
His dad and Jim both laughed at that and Mark sent his dad a sour look for siding with the enemy. Or former enemy. He would have said something, but his dad set the plate of crackers, a knife, and the jar of peanut butter in front of him and suddenly, he was starving.
After eating, Mark’s dad went back to his hotel. Jim had offered him the sofa, but he declined, saying he had to get all of his things anyway, and when he came back in the morning, he would bring some clothes for Mark.
Chapter 24
The Ferris Wheel shone red and white against the crystal blue autumn sky. The laughter and squealing of children mixed with the occasional scolding of chaperones blended with sounds of traffic to create an undercurrent of joyful energy at Navy Pier. School buses lined up to disgorge their eager cargo at a drop-off area, then, newly emptied, the buses looped around and disappeared into city traffic.
Mark was there and yet not there. Sounds reached his ears, but felt distant, the sights just slightly out of focus. He wandered, avoiding children who didn’t seem to see him and the adults looked through him. Feeling like a ghost from A Christmas Carol, he realized he must be dreaming.
Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series) Page 85
