March Into Hell mt-2

by M. P. McDonald

  “Whoa, Mark, hold up. Are you saying you wanted to die in there?”

  Mark clamped his mouth shut, his jaw muscles twitching. The thought had crossed his mind. He looked down at the fingers of his left hand poking out of the sling and picked at the bandage circling his palm.

  When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, “It’s not that I wanted to die. I thought I was going to die anyway and I just didn’t want to die-” He broke off; that wasn’t quite right. His face burned as he dropped his gaze, his eyes roaming the hills and valleys of the bedspread covering his lap. “I didn’t want to be found…like…like that.”

  Jim sighed and stood. Mark risked a glance at him. The CIA officer had his hands in his pockets and wandered to the window. He glanced at a few of the cards lined up on the ledge like soldiers at attention and picked up a couple. He was quiet for a minute or so then turned, his eyes drilling through Mark with their intensity. “You know, there’s no shame in surviving.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “So, I take it he spoke to you?” Jessica stood as Jim approached. He could tell she was trying to keep her expression professional, but he could feel the anxiety thrumming just beneath her calm exterior.

  Stopping a few paces in front of her, he sighed and said, “Yes, he did.” How much should he reveal? That Mark thought it was his fault? That he had wanted to die fighting rather than be found like he was? Before he could decide, he spotted Taylor’s doctor walking towards the nurses’ station. Mark’s frame of mind was precarious enough that Jim felt the doctor should be made aware of it. His own experience with Mark in the brig had given him some insight into the other man's psyche, and right now, Taylor was as low as he'd ever seen him.

  “Dr. Jenkins!” Jim walked briskly, catching up to the man. “Could I speak with you a moment?”

  The doctor set a chart down and stepped around the desk. He nodded to Jessica then turned his gaze to Jim. “Sure. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Yes, perhaps. I was just in talking to Mark Taylor.” Jim paused, wanting to word this carefully. “He seems rather depressed. I just wondered if you were aware of how he’s handling things. Mentally, that is.”

  The doctor leaned back, resting one elbow on the high desktop, his expression thoughtful. “What did he say?”

  Jim felt like he might be treading on shaky ground and that maybe he was invading Mark’s privacy, but he also knew he had to tell the doctor. Mark's demeanor worried him that much. “Somehow, he feels like he’s partly to blame. Like if he would have done something differently or fought harder he could have prevented what happened.”

  “That’s not too uncommon for victims of violence.”

  Nodding, Jim added, “And more than that, he even said that he wished he would have died rather than be found like he was.”

  Jessica sucked in a deep breath, and at the sound, Jim glanced at her. Her eyes were wide as she looked at him, seeking confirmation. “Are you sure, Jim?”

  He gave a short nod and turned his attention to the doctor who sighed and crossed his arms. “The other day, Mark made a remark and I asked him if he’d like to speak to someone; a chaplain or a psychiatrist-someone like that. He declined, but I’ll suggest it again. Unless he’s a risk to himself or others, it’s the best I can do.”

  Jim nodded. It was a start. He held out his hand. “I appreciate it, doc.”

  Jenkins shook Jim’s hand, his expression grim. “He seems like a good guy who’s been dealt a bad hand lately.”

  Jim and Jessica exchanged looks, and Jim turned to the doctor and said, “You don’t know the half of it."

  ***

  Matthew Jenkins watched the two leave. He had a feeling that their concern for his patient was more than just professional. Over the last few days, Matthew had encountered many people who had asked questions about Mark; people who usually had a story to tell about how they knew his patient. Some of the tales were mundane, some funny, but a few were incredible. He couldn’t answer their inquiries due to confidentiality issues, but he felt the compassion and concern of the people and saw the outpouring of cards and well wishes sent to his patient.

  Matthew circled behind the desk and grabbed Taylor’s chart, flipping it open to the progress notes. Though staring down at the form in the chart, his mind remained mired in the non-medical issues facing his patient. The problem was that Mark was isolated from this show of support.

  First, he had been in ICU, and now, although in a regular room, security was tight. Only a select few people were allowed in to see him, otherwise, the hospital would have been overwhelmed with people. Even knowing they couldn’t get in, the crowd outside the front entrance hadn’t diminished. Instead, it seemed to grow larger each day. Crosses and candles had begun to dot the parkway and security had their hands full removing the items when they were left on the hospital grounds. Between over-seeing the crowd and watching the many entrances, Matthew had heard that the security department was stretched thin and had mandatory overtime shifts running. A Chicago police cruiser was a permanent fixture in front of the hospital, and more units patrolled the nearby streets. Matthew had never seen anything like it.

  Shaking his head, he read through the surgeon’s note, glad to see that Taylor’s minor post-op infection had cleared up. Tests of Taylor’s kidney function had also come back within normal limits. The profound shock Mark had been in when he’d first arrived in the emergency room could have done permanent damage. Physically, the man was healing and Matthew would probably discharge him tomorrow. He hoped Taylor was ready to face the media.

  Matthew snapped the chart closed, and strode to Mark’s room. He needed to have a real talk with the guy.

  He found his patient picking listlessly at his meal. From the large quantity of food remaining on the tray, it didn’t appear he'd consumed very much. “You know, it works better if you actually eat it,” Matthew advised as he halted beside the bed. Looking down at the burger and limp fries, he had to concede that the food hardly looked appetizing.

  Mark glanced up at him, before covering his plate with the domed lid. “Yeah, I had some company a little while ago and the food got cold.”

  “Would you like to get another tray? I’m sure the nurse could call down for another one for you.”

  Shaking his head, Mark said, “No, that’s okay. I’m not hungry.”

  “Hmm…well, I was thinking about sending you home tomorrow, but if you don’t have an appetite, maybe we’ll need to keep you another day or so and investigate that.” Matthew was only half-bluffing. Mark had just been advanced to a general diet. He would have to eat some regular food before he left so that they would know he could tolerate it.

  Mark’s eyes, wide with alarm, shot to his. “I have an appetite! Just…not right this minute.” He rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead, and then let it drop. “Doc, you gotta let me out of here tomorrow.”

  “What’s so important about tomorrow?”

  Mark sighed. “I just…I feel like I need to go home. That once I’m there, I’ll be able to…” His voice had become quiet before trailing off, and his gaze shifted to the window, staring at the black rectangle.

  “You’ll be able to forget what happened to you?”

  Mark took a deep breath and swallowed before nodding. He kept his face averted.

  Matthew looked around and pulled the nearest chair over and sat down. He leaned forward and touched Mark’s right arm, noting the slight flinch of the other man. “Listen, Mark. I really think you should talk to someone. Someone like a mental health professional who can help you deal with all of this.”

  The ticking of the clock was loud in the room and Matthew began to wonder if Mark was going to ignore his suggestion when his patient finally leaned back against the bed. His head angled up as he focused on the ceiling, and Matthew was glad to see that the bruising on Mark’s neck was beginning to fade slightly.

  “Okay.”

  Mark’s voice was so quiet, Matthew
almost missed the reply. “What?”

  “I said okay. I’ll talk to someone.” There was a trace of bitterness to his tone, and he still focused on the ceiling where it met the far wall, avoiding Matthew's eyes.

  “There’s nothing to feel ashamed about, Mark.”

  “Why does everyone keep saying that?” Mark finally looked at him. His eyes narrowed. “How would you or Jim know what it felt like to be dragged out of bed and be led around like a dog on a leash? Huh? How? Did you ever watch as someone pounded a nail through your hand, Doc? Well? Did you?”

  Matthew stood and closed the door, bracing against it with one hand for a few seconds as he organized his thoughts. How could he answer those questions? Obviously, he had never been in that situation and now he felt ashamed of the advice he had given Mark. It was trite and sounded like a platitude. Feeling completely inadequate, he returned to his seat and gave a heavy sigh.

  Mark’s face was a stony mask, and he stared straight ahead now, but his good hand clenched around a can of pop. The sound of the metal snapping as it slowly crumpled punctuated Mark’s harsh breathing.

  “You’re right, Mark. I have no idea what you’re feeling now. I’m sorry for my comment.”

  The can popped as it collapsed completely, and the remains of the drink bubbled out onto the table. Matthew worried about the wound on Mark's hand, but before he could warn him, Mark released the can and gave the table a shove.

  His body sagged back and he flopped his forearm over his eyes. “Damn. I did it again.” Mark gave a choked laugh. “At this rate, I won’t have to worry about being embarrassed in front of anyone because there won’t be anyone who’ll want to be in the same room with me.” The arm fell back to the bed and Mark turned to Matthew. “I’m sorry, Doc.”

  Matthew swallowed a lump in his throat and shook his head. “Not necessary. No more apologies, Mark. You feel what you feel and who am I to say it’s wrong?” Matthew stood and passed a hand over his eyes, rubbing them. He felt completely drained. “Do you have a preference for a psychiatrist? If not, I can recommend some good names.”

  Mark shook his head.

  “Okay, well there’s a couple that would be good. There’s John Newsome. He’s excellent, or Scott Palmer. You can’t go wrong with either of those guys.”

  Mark’s eyes widened and he sat up straight in the bed. “Scott Palmer?”

  Matthew nodded. “Yeah. He’s a great guy. I think you’d like him.”

  A wry smile twisted Mark’s mouth and he shook his head. “Yeah, I think I will. He’s the one I need to talk to.”

  Matthew was surprised at Mark’s change in attitude. “Okay. I’ll give him a call and write the consult request. I know you want to go home, but I think we’ll give it one more day so you can get your appetite back and talk to Dr. Palmer.”

  ***

  Adrian handed over his identification to the border patrol guard at the checkpoint into Ciudad Juarez, Mexico and tried to curb his impatience as it was studied. The flight from Chicago to El Paso had been the riskiest part of the trip. His photo had flashed so many times on the TV, even he was getting tired of looking at it. His blond dye job, scruffy whiskers and blue contacts had altered his appearance significantly, but just to make sure, he'd added a slouch to his walk that he hoped made him seem shorter and heavier.

  Of course, the ID was fake, but it was the best money could buy. He had a passport, driver's license, credit cards and even mock up photos of him in his alternate identity with his 'family'. That had been a stroke of genius. He'd kept all of it hidden in a safe deposit box using yet a third identity. Not only did he keep the fail-safe identity, he stored most of the Guild's assets there as well, converting it to easily portable jewelry, precious gems and cash. If he had to, he could disappear at a moment's notice, and live out his life on a tropical island as Lee Bigham. Adrian scowled at the idea. There was no fun in that.

  The Mexican soldier glanced from the ID in his hand to Adrian's face then asked the purpose of Adrian's visit.

  "Tourist." Adrian beamed and then added, "I'm heading to Cabo to do a little snorkeling. Can you give me directions?" He pulled out the map of Mexico he'd purchased, and took his time unfolding it until it was a large unwieldy square. He didn't miss the soldier's sigh of annoyance. It was just the response he was looking for. The soldier waved him on.

  Adrian flung the map onto the floor of the car. His only worry had been being identified leaving the country, but he'd felt confident his disguise and passport would let him sail through. So far, everything had gone without a hitch. Years of saving every penny and living in fleabag buildings was about to pay off.

  The colorful buildings didn't hide the poverty of the area. Graffiti stained buildings squatted close together, their bright colors giving a falsely festive look to the neighborhoods. Cruising the streets, he was glad he'd memorized the route to his meeting location. Every street looked the same. He raised an eyebrow at a particularly garish purple building next to the panaderia that was his goal. His contact had insisted that a bakery would cause less suspicion than meeting at a bar although Kern felt exposed in the bright sunlight. It was only mid-morning, so his cover of buying some pastries and eating them at the third table from the door wouldn't look out of the ordinary.

  Javier Mendez sauntered into the bakery, glanced at Adrian, but showed no signs of recognition as he made his way to the counter and ordered.

  Adrian sipped his coffee. A few minutes later, Mendez joined him and pulled out the opposite chair. He took a bite of some large pastry and spoke around the food, "Buenos dias."

  Adrian ignored the pleasantry. "Have the arrangements been made?"

  Mendez set his pastry down and dusted the powdered sugar from his fingers as he said in lightly accented English, "Si, the house will be ready in a month. I think you will be happy with it. Much space and no close neighbors."

  "Excellent. Is it on the ocean?" It would be much easier to come and go by boat and access had been one of Adrian's stipulations. As a foreigner, he wasn't allowed to buy oceanfront property, but there were ways around the law.

  "It's set back in a small bay."

  "Sounds perfect." Adrian smiled. "Now, about the other thing." As distasteful as Adrian found it, the only way to raise sizable amounts of cash quickly was in the drug trade, and his members had become adept at dealing to the rich North Shore kids who were afraid to go into the ghetto areas of Chicago.

  "Shipments will begin as soon as payment is received."

  "I have it right here." Adrian scanned the small bakery and made sure nobody was paying any attention as he passed an English to Spanish dictionary across the table. The center had been hollowed out and contained a small package of gemstones.

  Mendez slipped the package out, and with a quizzical expression, peered into the small velvet bag. Afterward, he tugged the drawstrings tight and tossed the bag onto the table. "We agreed on cash, not a bunch of rocks."

  Leaning forward, he struggled to keep his voice calm as he covered the bag with his hand. "We agreed on a price, not a method of payment. I couldn't very well cross the border with a suitcase full of cash. What would I have done if I'd been searched? Besides, these jewels are worth twice what you demanded."

  Taking another bite of the pastry, Mendez shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. Do I look like a jeweler to you?"

  "I can go elsewhere for what I want."

  "You think so?" Mendez dabbed a spot of sugar from the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin. "I think that I'm the only one willing to deal with you now, after that repulsive stunt you pulled off in Chicago."

  "What repulsive stunt?"

  Mendez glanced sideways and his lip curled. "You crucified that man."

  "It was part of a sacred ritual. We're not just some street gang like you're used to dealing with. We're a holy guild. Our foundation is based on sacred rituals and spiritual growth."

  "Spiritual growth. Of course." Mendez rolled his eyes. "You've managed to accomplish what I
thought was impossible. You have offended even the heads of the most violent cartels in Mexico. I had a difficult time setting up a supply line because nobody wanted to do business with you."

  "You mean the same people that murder women and children? I didn't know they had standards." Adrian shook his head in disgust and continued, "Besides, Taylor didn't die, he's perfectly fine."

  "They're saying he really is some kind of saint, and all the churches have been praying for him. You might want to re-think moving your headquarters down here."

  "It'll blow over."

  Mendez shrugged. "We are a Catholic country, senor. Surely you realize that your 'ritual' could stir up some passion in my countrymen." With that comment, he stood and casually took the bag of gems, tucking them into his pocket. "These had better be twice the worth or I'll be in contact. Otherwise, this will be our last meeting in person."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “…yeah, Lily, pretty much everything including shoes. I think my sneakers should be okay to wear.” Mark pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to remember where he had removed his shoes last. Probably right inside the door, but with everything that went on that night the sneakers could be anywhere in the loft by now.

  He supposed he could wear slippers home if he had to. "I’ll see ya later. Bye.”

  Walking was easier today than the day before and Mark quickly showered, blocking out all thought and just letting the water pour over him. Afterwards, he even managed to shave and only nicked himself a couple of times. As he blotted the tiny cuts with tissue, he grimaced at the hideous purple and yellow bruises on his throat. Maybe he should have asked Lily to bring him a turtleneck. Other than his throat, he looked okay, which surprised him somewhat. He felt so different inside and was sure it would reflect in his outward appearance.