[Mark Taylor 01.0] No Good Deed

by M. P. McDonald

  The silence was absolute and deafening. He hummed, not sure what song it was and not caring. It broke the stillness. Mark let his head droop and intertwined his fingers on the back of his neck. The memories of the days after he returned home from Afghanistan flowed into the vacuum created by the isolation.

  He hadn’t trusted anyone else to clean out the camera, so he had done it himself, making sure that no grains of sand remained in the body. Mark massaged the muscles of his neck and smiled when he recalled his excitement of loading the camera with film for the first time. He had spent the whole day down at the lake front shooting pictures. Nothing was safe from his shutter. He snapped skaters, dogs catching Frisbees, sun-bathers, the skyline and dozens of other things.

  Mark sighed. What a great day that had been. If he closed his eyes, he could almost smell the fresh cut grass mixed with car exhaust and topped with a faint fishy odor from the damp sand. He remembered lying down and taking a picture straight up into a tree. The sun had shone through the branches creating a great light and dark contrast on the rough bark.

  That night he had developed his film, eager to see how the camera performed. Most of the shots were junk, but a few came out well and he had been happy. One shot had puzzled him though. He couldn’t recall taking that picture and he would certainly have remembered if he had. A small child lay on the sand, her hair plastered to her head. A man bent over her blowing into her mouth and a woman appeared to be doing chest compressions.

  He shrugged it off as being some kind of test picture on the film. That night, he’d dreamed of a child drowning, dying on a beach. The child in the photo. It had been so vivid, so real, he had recalled even the smallest details. The dream had stayed with him all that next day, and he stared at the picture, wondering about the little girl. Mark was sure it had to have been a still from an old movie. But no matter how hard he had tried, he could not erase the stark scene from his mind. Even the scent of the beach had lingered in the morning. He felt silly, but after doing two photo shoots that day, he had gone back to the same beach from the day before. Somehow, he knew it was that beach.

  Picture in hand, he had walked the beach and even thought about asking the lifeguards if they had been involved in a rescue of the child, but they were busy watching the swimmers. Mark would always recall the feeling he’d had at that moment. It was a feeling of anxiety and foreboding. Uneasy, he had paced the packed sand at the edge of the beach, sidestepping toddlers and darting children. He had searched the waves, not really knowing what he searched for but feeling compelled to continue. For a half hour, he walked the shore. He had ignored the glares from some parents even though he knew his behavior was making them nervous. He was helpless to stop.

  Then, it happened. He heard a woman scream, and whirling, he saw lifeguards rush towards the shore and long minutes later, the little girl was hauled in, limp and blue. Mark had backed away while every hair on the back of his neck stood on end. On the way to his Jeep, he had sunk to his knees and vomited on a sand dune.

  Mark had ignored the camera after that, but curiosity picked at his resolve, and two weeks later, he took it down from the shelf in his studio. After a thorough examination, which showed nothing but normal wear and tear on a fifty-year old camera, he held it to his eye. Just to prove that it had been nothing but a coincidence, he pointed towards a church across the street, and snapped a few pictures. Then he shot a couple of cars rolling to a stop at the corner of his street. He finished off the roll of film with other random, boring shots.

  When he had developed the film, the one that should have been a truck double-parked in front of his building, had changed to a horrific traffic accident. Mark had flung the print away.

  That night, like before, he had dreamed the details. The next day, he found the street, saw the car that would be involved in the accident, and he let the air out of one of the tires. He had never done anything like that before, but it had been like he was possessed. The owner had come out of nearby bar and shouted, but Mark was too fast for him.

  When he went home, the picture had changed. Instead of the accident, he had a print of a guy changing a tire on the car.

  The slot on Mark’s door opened with a screech and ripped him from his memories. He tensed, his hands braced on the floor at his sides.

  “Approach the door and lie with your feet through the slot,” said a disembodied voice from a speaker set somewhere in the ceiling.

  Mark didn’t take the time to look for the source. He followed the directions, flinching when the hated shackles snapped around his ankles. He repeated the process with his hands. The voice then told him to stand in the middle of the room with his back to the door.

  He took a deep breath, trying to will his muscles to relax, but the stress and fear overcame him and the chains on his shackles rattled with every wave of fear. If only he had a clue what was going to come next.

  The door creaked open, and guards entered. The web of chains again circled his waist and attached his hands and feet to a central chain. He dared to look at the guards surrounding him, relieved that none held the other gear. He felt he could face whatever was coming as long as he could see and hear.

  The guards took him down a half dozen hallways, through locked doors and into an elevator. He realized it didn’t matter that he could see. He became so turned around and confused, he had no idea where he was. None of the guards spoke and the halls were quiet. If there were other inmates, Mark didn’t see or hear them.

  The group arrived at a door that looked no different than the dozen that they had passed en route. The guard in the lead opened the door and held it open, locking it behind them.

  Mark’s apprehension escalated when he noticed some odd features in the room. Eye rings jutted up from the floor and the cement sloped down towards a rusty drain. A wood table with six chairs took up the far wall. Five of the chairs looked like they had been pulled from offices. One was straight-backed and wooden. He had no doubt which one was meant for him.

  The lead guard pulled that chair into the middle of the room and motioned for Mark to sit. He did as he was told and waited. The guards remained, none speaking. Mark wondered what they would do if he spoke to them. He could ask the one in charge if he wanted to go have a beer with him after work. Go shoot the breeze.

  Of course, he wouldn’t do that. Even if he had tried, it wouldn’t have worked because when he attempted to make eye contact with them, one by one, they looked right through him. It was like he was invisible. Only one, a younger guy, made eye contact, and the flash of knowledge and pity, in the guy’s eyes an instant before he looked away, sent Mark’s heart racing. That guard knew what was coming and whatever it was, wouldn’t be pleasant.

  Time passed, but how much, Mark had no way of knowing. His hands became numb from the cuffs and the position in which he had to hold them. When a key rattled in the door, a bolt of pure fear pinned his back to the chair. His vision narrowed to the entrance and his heart thumped so hard, it threatened to punch a hole through his chest.

  Chapter Five

  Five men entered. Three sat at the table, facing Mark. Two of them had pads of paper and pencils and almost immediately began writing. The third sat back and raised one ankle to rest on his other knee and tilted a bottle of water, taking a long drink.

  Mark didn’t like the way the man seemed to be settling in and making himself comfortable. It was as though he expected to be there a long time.

  The other two men spoke quietly in the corner for a few minutes. One had dark hair cut short and he moved with a military bearing. The other sported a shaved head, and appeared to be trying to convince the first of something. The dark haired man shook his head, his jaw set.

  Mark strained to hear what they said but couldn’t make out the words. After a few minutes of looking through a folder, they appeared to come to some agreement and turned towards Mark. The shaved one ambled up to Mark, halting just in front of him.

  “Hello. I’m Bill and this is Jim.” He jab
bed his thumb in the direction of the other man. “This group behind me will be observing and taking notes. How it works is like this—we ask you some simple questions, and you answer them. If the answers are satisfactory, then we’ll all have a pleasant session.” He spread his hands and smiled. “We all like when a session is easy, don’t we, Jim?”

  Jim grunted and glared at Mark, his arms crossed. “Let’s just get on with it.”

  Mark squirmed under the scrutiny. What more could he tell them that he hadn’t already told the FBI? What was this Jim guy so pissed about?

  Bill shrugged. “Okay. You go first, Jim. I’ll just go sit over here.”

  Jim directed a glare at the guard on Mark’s right. “Why is he sitting in a chair? This isn’t a goddamn social call.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  The guard yanked Mark up by the arm and Mark staggered as the chains connecting his ankles and hands pulled his arms down. He didn’t know why he felt guilty, like he had done something wrong. The guards had told him to sit, so he had, but Jim aimed his annoyance at Mark, not the guard.

  He stood as straight as he could and tried to meet Jim’s stare without flinching. The shackles tugged on his arms and kept his shoulders hunched. Instinct told him to stand straight and tall, but it was physically impossible. To compensate, he refused to look away from Jim’s glare.

  “What are you looking at?” Jim approached Mark, stopping when their faces were less than a foot apart. “You have something you want to say?”

  That did it. Mark broke eye contact for an instant.

  “I didn’t hear you.” Now Jim’s nose almost touched Mark’s.

  Mark flinched, drawing back, but the guard poked him in the spine with something hard.

  He struggled not to wince and licked his lips, the desert in his mouth making speech difficult. “Yes. I do have something to say. I want to state that I’m innocent.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the men with the paper scribbling and hoped they noted his declaration.

  Jim’s expression didn’t change and he spoke as if Mark hadn’t said anything. “You are to address me as sir, understand?” He never raised his voice, but threat laced every syllable of the sentence.

  Mark nodded. “Yes, sir.” His face burned with humiliation. It must be easy being a tough guy when your adversary was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

  “Now, I have some simple questions. I just want the facts.” Jim stepped back and opened the folder. “It says here that your name is Mark Andrew Taylor. You’re thirty-five years old, never married and you live in Chicago. Is that all true?”

  Mark nodded.

  Jim cocked his head. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s all true,” Mark said. The menace in Jim’s voice sent shivers shooting through him.

  Jim asked some more questions, verifying the names of Mark’s parents, where he grew up, the college he had attended. Mark knew all that information had to be in his file and tried to determine the motive for asking it all again. The questions moved on to Mark’s photography and despite the circumstances, Mark felt his enthusiasm for discussing his craft begin to surface.

  “What kind of photography do you do?” Jim’s voice sounded almost friendly, as if he and Mark were chatting at a party.

  “I do portraits and commercial photography in the studio in my loft.”

  Jim didn’t reply, just nodded and waited, so Mark continued, “Commercial jobs are for magazines and advertisements, mostly. Portraits are anything from family and group shots to head-shots for actors and models.”

  “Is that all you do?”

  Mark shook his head and just in time, remembered to add the sir to his next reply. “No, sir. Those jobs pay the bills, but what I love to do is take candid photos of people and try to capture their...their spirit.” He knew it sounded hokey, but he didn’t know how else to explain it. When he caught someone on film with that unguarded expression that invited the camera in, it was like hitting a home run.

  “What kind of photography did you do in Afghanistan a few years ago?” Jim’s voice had an edge to it. “I don’t expect there are a lot of actors looking for head-shots in Kandahar or Kabul.”

  “Um, no sir. I was there to do photos for a friend’s book.”

  Jim paced in front of him and then halted and quirked an eyebrow at Mark. “And did that pay the bills?” Sarcasm dripped from the words.

  Sensing that Jim was zeroing in on key questions, Mark considered his reply carefully. “No, sir. Mo offered a partnership of sorts. He paid for the trip, but I would get a percentage from the sale of the book.”

  “How much did that turn out to be?”

  “Nothing, sir. He is still shopping the book around, the last I heard.”

  “So you’re telling me that you went there out of the goodness of your heart to help out a friend?”

  “I thought it could be a good opportunity. It was a chance I took.”

  Jim shook his head, as though Mark had been cheated. “So, Mo was your friend for how long?”

  Mark counted back to the time he’d met Mo at a red carpet event they were both covering. “About five years. He helped me out with some photo shoots when I needed another photographer. Sometimes, he even waited for payment until I was actually paid for the shoot. Photography is a small world and we try to help each other out when we can.”

  Jim chuckled. “Oh, really?”

  Mark remained silent, not sure if Jim asked a question or was just commenting. The look on the other man’s face frightened him. He had seen a cat play with a mouse before, swiping at it with his paw, letting it crawl away, only to pounce in for the kill when the mouse was only a few inches from the safety of its hole. Jim looked like that cat.

  Flipping to another page in the file, Jim smiled. “You might consider Mohommad a friend, but he sure doesn’t feel the same about you. Do you know what he told us?”

  Mark shook his head. His stomach twisted. He hadn’t spoken to Mohammad for six months. Every time he called him, he got voice mail.

  “He said that you were at an al-Qaeda training camp. That you and he trained there and agreed to take pictures of targets in the U.S. Your area was Chicago.”

  Confused, he had no idea how to reply. Had Mo really said that? Why would he lie? “That’s not true, sir. I don’t know why he would say those things. I only took pictures of the subjects for Mo’s book. I never saw any training camps. And I definitely never agreed to take pictures of targets in any city, let alone Chicago.”

  Jim shrugged, his head tilting. “Hey, he’s your friend.”

  He let that statement hang in the air, and the men sitting at the table bent their heads, the scratch of their pens the only sound in the room. Fear coursed through him—a desperate fear that they would judge Mark guilty by association.

  Jim turned to Bill. “I’ve finished with my questions for the moment.”

  Bill stood and stretched. “So, let me make sure I have this correct?” He put his hands behind his back and, head down, approached Mark. “You went to Afghanistan with a confirmed member of al-Qaeda, but you deny any involvement?”

  Desperation rose up and spilled out. “I never heard of al-Qaeda until the attacks. I swear to God. I never talked to anyone.”

  Bill sighed. “I wish we could believe you. Really. I do.”

  “The FBI guys in Chicago took all my negatives, all my photos—check them out. You’ll see. This is all a big mistake.” Mark looked from Bill to Jim, willing them to believe him. Sweat drenched his body and he could smell the acrid scent of his own fear.

  “Oh, we will. Preliminary reports state some photographs of the Sears Tower were found amongst your files.”

  Mark searched his memory. He took thousands of pictures a year. It’s likely at some point he had taken some pictures of the building. Who in Chicago hadn’t?

  Before he could reply, Bill motioned to the guards. “Set him up for position three.”

  Position three? What the
hell was that? A guard circled in front of him and released Mark’s hands from the chain that connected to the one between his ankles. The guard attached a longer chain on the end and passed the end over Mark’s shoulder to another guard behind him. The wooden chair scraped across the floor, and Mark turned to see the guard behind him stand on the chair and pass the end of the chain through an eye bolt jutting out of the ceiling. Dread flooded him and he looked to the men seated at the table. The two writing had set their pens down and the other one sat back with his arms folded. Were they just going to sit there and watch?

  Seconds later, Mark’s arms jerked as the chain tightened until his arms were pulled up and behind his head. In front of him, the first guard secured a short chain to a bolt in the floor. His shoulders began to ache almost immediately and when he tried to step back to ease the tension, the chain connected on the floor pulled tight, and he had the sensation of falling backwards. A knife-like kind of pain shot across his shoulders as they bore all of his weight for those few seconds. The position forced him to keep his feet forward while his arms pulled him back. It didn’t take long before the ache turned to an unrelenting burning.

  Mark hung with only the balls of his feet touching the floor. If he pushed with his toes, it relieved the pressure in his shoulders a tiny bit, but created a new pain in his calves.

  They didn’t need to do this. His breaths scraped out, harsh and loud. Sweat dripped, stinging his eyes. He tried to swipe his face on one of his shoulders, but they were pulled too far back. A groan escaped him and Jim looked up from the file, his face impassive.

  Mark looked at Bill. Maybe he would show some mercy. He licked his lips, ready to plead with the man, when without warning, a hood descended, cutting off Mark’s vision. He shook his head, knowing it was futile but the pain and sense of suffocation forced him to react.

  His hands went numb even as his shoulders and legs shot bolts of agony though his limbs. He tried to stay quiet-tried not to let them hear how much it hurt. He didn’t want to give the bastards the satisfaction. Despite his resolve, his head sagged forward and every gasping breath ended in a moan. He couldn’t help it. His eyes watered and he was almost glad for the hood. At least that shame was hidden.