[Mark Taylor 01.0] No Good Deed

by M. P. McDonald

  Jim would have liked to open it with Taylor present, but that would mean the guards would be privy to the contents as well only he had a feeling that this information should be kept secret. He nodded towards Mark. “I hope you’ll feel better soon.”

  It was the closest he could come to an apology. The anger in Mark’s eyes wavered, and then his shoulders slumped. The guards led him away.

  “Well, aren’t you going to open it?” Bill sprawled into a chair, pointing with his chin at the envelope in Jim’s hands. “The guy was a real pistol tonight. Told me to just get it over with.”

  “Get what over with?”

  “What we were going to do. Claimed he dreamed it last night.” Bill clasped his hands behind his head and grinned.

  The hairs on the back of Jim’s neck rose and he paused as he tore the seal. “He said that?”

  “Yeah, but he wanted to write it down instead of telling us. I decided to go along with it. Thought maybe he would write something useful while he was at it.”

  “Huh. Well, let’s see.” Jim unfolded the paper and smoothed it on top of the table. The handwriting scrawled across the page, but it was still clear enough to read without any problem. Taylor had outlined in stark detail exactly what was going to happen.

  Jim read it and slid it over to Bill. “I wasn’t here for most of this, so, I don’t know if he’s right or not. What do you think?”

  Bill lowered his hands with a sigh and slouched forward to read the paper. Seconds later, his back straightened and his eyebrows rose. He flipped the paper, his eyes racing across the lines of print. When he finished, he looked up at Jim. “Well, holy hell. What do you know? He has it verbatim, right down to a...remark I made.”

  Jim pulled out a chair and flopped onto it. “So, what do we do about it?”

  “What do you mean?” Bill sounded puzzled. “It’s interesting, but doesn’t change anything.”

  Jim narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “How can you say that? Either what he’s been telling us all along is true, or someone on the team set this up.”

  Bill shrugged. “Who the hell would set this up?” He stood and pointed a finger at Jim. “Are you accusing me of arranging this...this scam?” Leaning one arm on the table, he swept the other in a vague motion towards Taylor’s cell block. “Maybe the guy got lucky. He’s had enough sessions in here that he could have guessed. But if this is his attempt to get released, it’s not going to work.”

  Jim felt his jaw tighten and exerted every measure of his self-control to keep his anger in check. His instinct was to jump up and stand toe-to-toe with the guy. Instead, he tilted the chair back on two legs, put his feet on the table, and crossed his arms, giving Bill a hard stare until the other man sat down.

  As if the outburst hadn’t occurred, he said in a calm voice, “Of course I don’t think you set it up, but there were others in the room. We’ll need to keep alert for troublemakers.” He let his feet drop to the floor and stood. “However, this fiasco notwithstanding, I do have doubts about Taylor’s guilt. Unless you uncovered anything with this session today?”

  Bill shook his head. “Nope, just more of the same denials.”

  “Either Taylor is the world’s toughest guy or he’s not connected to any terrorists.” The implication that Taylor was innocent, and had been caught up in a post 9/11 witch hunt wasn’t something that he wanted to think about. There were too many people involved. Something like that wouldn’t happen. The designation of enemy combatant needed approval from the highest authorities. It wasn’t Jim’s job to question it.

  “It doesn’t matter anyway, we can’t just let him go. Who knows, maybe the guy is tough. Maybe he’s just stupid or a martyr.” Bill stood and waved his hand. “Besides, there’s still the confession by his friend and his trip to Afghanistan to consider.”

  “That’s all bullshit, and you know it. His ‘friend’ named half of his address book. From what I read, that guy was a bit player. A wannabe terrorist. His confessions have yielded a big fat zero as far as actionable intelligence. In fact, the last memo stated that he’s already been released back to his home country.”

  Bill shot a Jim a look of surprise. “Oh. I missed that one, I guess.” He sank back onto his chair and drummed his fingers on the table.

  Jim nodded. “I’ll find it and forward it to you.”

  “But Taylor was still in Afghanistan...”

  “So? Lots of journalists and photographers were in that country in the last several years. Should we go round them all up?” Why was he defending the guy? Jim shook off the thought. He wasn’t defending, he was simply playing the devil’s advocate.

  Bill sighed, and rubbed circles on his temples. “What other evidence do we have? The calls? Is that it?”

  “Exactly. The evidence we do have, the calls warning of the attacks.” Jim began ticking off the list on his fingers. “His association with someone who has contacts within al-Qaeda, and his trip to Afghanistan, hasn’t been built upon since his detainment began. We’re still at square one.”

  “You think he’s innocent.” It was a statement.

  Jim flipped the envelope against one hand, tapping it as he paced in front of the table. Innocent? It was hard to contemplate. Difficult to accept. “I don’t know, but I’m not comfortable with what we have so far. If we don’t get more soon, we’re going to have to make some serious decisions.”

  Shaking his head, Bill said, “Even if the guy is innocent, how can we let him go? You know he’d go running off and telling the press.”

  “That’s a possibility, but not a reason to keep him prisoner. It shouldn’t even be a factor in our decision. We’re not some communist country who locks up dissidents. If he wants to speak, it’s his right.”

  “Well...shit.” Bill propped his elbows on the table, his hands on either side of his head. After a moment, he dropped his hands. “What about a non-disclosure contract?”

  “You mean an agreement to keep quiet?” The idea put a sour taste in Jim’s mouth.

  “You have a better idea?” Bill spread his hands. “Look, Jim, I’m not so sure the guy is innocent, however, like you said, we haven’t been able to get any hard evidence. I concede that. None of the teams have, so we’re not alone.”

  Jim halted his pacing, tucked the envelope in his inside breast pocket, tugged on the lapels. “I think we dig in deeper. Try some new techniques. If those don’t work, then, I don’t think we have any choice but to recommend release.”

  Mark paced his cell. It had been weeks since the last interrogation and he hadn’t heard anything about what he had written. This whole time, from the beginning of this nightmare, despite the accusations and the interrogations, hope had burned in him. He’d tried to quash it—had tried to go numb, but it flickered anyway. Then the dreams came again, and as terrifying as they’d been, they gave him a reason to hope, a way to prove his innocence.

  Now, even after his predictions came true, nothing had changed. He’d seen the envelope in Jim’s hand before they took him to the infirmary, he was sure he remembered that. Had they thrown it away? Had he gone through hell for nothing?

  Hope. He hated hope. It was insane to cling to it. He was insane. This whole goddamn place was insane.

  He balled his fists, his body tensing as rage raced through every cell of his being. The bastards! The confines of the cell, with no way to vent the anger, served as a pressure cooker. He yanked the thin pad off his bed, slamming it against the wall. Why didn’t they let him go?

  The dark bubble over the camera up in the corner caught his eye. There they were. Watching him. They were always watching him. The lights shone all the damn time. Everything he did was caught on tape. He couldn’t even take a piss without an audience. Shame combined with the anger, and Mark’s gaze dropped to the half-eaten bowl of grits on his tray. Grabbing it, he whipped handfuls of the congealed substance at the bubble. Let them just try to see through that mess.

  When the grits were gone, he gave a hard flick of
his wrist, sending the bowl bouncing against the wall. His chest heaved while he watched it spin and wobble in a circle before coming to rest in the corner. The sticky grits plopped from the bubble onto the floor. Damn it. Even the grits wouldn’t cooperate. Mark stared at the splotches of food on the floor and burst out laughing. What an idiot he was for thinking anything would make a difference. A stupid, naive idiot. They had probably snickered over the note in the envelope.

  He staggered back, bumping into the wall, and slid down to a sitting position. Hysterical, mirthless laughter bubbled up in his throat, choking him before it dissolved into a sob. Pain squeezed his chest. Why had he allowed himself to feel anything? Hope hurt.

  “Shit!” He crossed his arms over his knees and buried his face, wrapping his hands over the back of his head.

  The mattress was gone, taken as punishment. Even his blanket was confiscated. The temperature in the cell dropped precipitously. It had to be deliberate.

  To keep warm, he did jumping jacks, push-ups, and any other exercise that he could do in a nine by six cell. That worked, until he tired. His muscles quivered as he paced to and fro. Less than four steps from end to end, and he’d about face and repeat the march. For hours, he continued, his pace slowing until he was stumbling and lurching across the cell. They would turn the heat on soon. They wouldn’t let him freeze to death.

  He hadn’t seen anyone in days. Maybe they had gone off and left him. But someone delivered the meals. They still came at regular intervals. Not the usual fare. Instead, he received cold meals ready-to-eat. He ate them, if only to keep from getting a feeding tube, but the cold sapped his energy, and he got up only to use the toilet or push the meals out. After awhile, he didn’t need to get up as often. His fingers were clumsy and stiff, and the meals too hard to open. He gave up, and sent them back out untouched. Nobody seemed to care.

  Mark curled on the metal shelf and shivered. His teeth chattered until he was sure a few had chipped. He clenched his jaw to stop the chattering. How many meals had come since the cold hit? Six? Eight? He lost count. He slept in short spurts, getting up to move around, but finally, he sank onto the floor, with a sigh. He had to rest.

  Arms pulled into his shirt, he hunched over his drawn up knees. At least one more meal arrived, but he was so stiff, he couldn’t get up to retrieve it. He moved onto his side, the cement no colder than the metal shelf. Why bother trying to move? His eyes grew heavy. How cold did someone have to get before they died? Would they let him get to that point?

  After a bit, the cold didn’t bother him so much. He must be getting used to it. Growing up in Wisconsin, and then living in Chicago, he was accustomed to cold weather.

  Once, he’d gone hunting with his dad when he was a kid, and had broken through some ice, falling into a shallow pond. He recalled pushing against the ice, breaking it with his hands as he waded out, but remembered his father’s warnings to keep moving until they got back to the campsite. There, he’d been stripped of his wet clothes, and wrapped in warm blankets. His dad wouldn’t let him sleep until he had warmed up. The next day, he’d asked why, and was told if he’d fallen asleep when he was that cold, he might not have woken up.

  Mark pushed an arm out of his sleeve and bent it under his head for a pillow. He closed his eyes. Falling asleep now might be the answer to his problems. Just shut his eyes and never open them again. He’d be done with interrogations, done with the shame and fear. He’d be free.

  Jim sighed as he read through the memos from the head of security. Taylor had gone crazy with some food and as punishment, they had removed his mattress. It was also noted that he was no longer getting grits. One side of his mouth quirked in a smile. He couldn’t blame Taylor. Even after living in the South for a number of years, he had never acquired a taste for the dish.

  He glanced up as the subject of his thoughts was led into the room. Taylor kept his head down as he shuffled to stand beside the chair. There he waited, never raising his eyes.

  Jim motioned to the guards. “He can sit.” With that, the guard secured Taylor’s shackles to the bolt in the floor.

  Bill took the first turn. He circled to the front of the table. “Hello, Mark. How are you feeling today?”

  “Good, sir.” His head rose, but he simply stared at a spot ahead of him on the floor.

  “Glad to hear it. You had a rough time of it lately.” Bill paused and sent Jim a glance. They’d discussed their strategy. Bill would sympathize with Mark’s plight and show concern about all the guy had been through, the water-boarding, extreme isolation, and temperature control. They hoped sympathy would cause him to break down.

  Taylor didn’t respond.

  Bill leaned into Taylor’s line of sight, forcing the man to see him. “You’re not going to answer me?” His tone was light, as though joking.

  “You didn’t ask a question, sir.” Taylor sounded as flat as his expression. There was nothing there.

  Bill chuckled. “You’re right. I didn’t.” He half sat on the table, his pose relaxed. Jim marveled at the tone of concern Bill managed with his next question. “How are you holding up, Mark?”

  Taylor remained silent for so long that Jim was sure he wouldn’t reply, but finally, he shrugged. “Okay. I guess. Sir.”

  “That’s good. Anything I can do for you? Do you need anything? Cards? Books?” Taylor’s request for books had been sent through the channels several times, but still hadn’t been cleared.

  “No, sir.”

  Bill spread his hands, and shrugged at Jim with a ‘what do I do now’ look.

  Jim decided to take his turn early. He stood, letting his chair scrape the floor with a harsh screech. Taylor didn’t flinch. It was time to get tough. Obviously, being nice was getting them nowhere. He reached into a folder and removed a pile of photos. Moving around the front of the table, he shoved a picture under Taylor’s nose.

  “Recognize these?”

  Taylor’s head moved a fraction as Jim flipped through the photos, allowing Taylor to see all of them. “Yes, sir.”

  So that’s how it was going to be. Every response would have to be pulled out of the guy. “Care to enlighten us?” Jim was well aware of what the photos were, but wanted to hear Taylor confirm it.

  Taylor replied in a monotone, “They’re photos I developed from my camera on September 10th, 2001.”

  Jim paced across Taylor’s line of vision, but if the man noticed, he gave no indication. His gaze still appeared to be fixed at a spot on the floor.

  “Do you know where we found these?” Not letting him reply, knowing it would be either a yes or a no, Jim moved to the point. “These were in a box in your home.” Jim circled around the table to retrieve a stack of photos out of a file. Returning to the front of the table, he thumbed through the stack. “They were mixed in with these other pictures.”

  He leaned against the table and crossed his ankles. With a shake of his head, he studied the photos. “You know, Taylor, for a guy who’s supposed to be a professional photographer, these photos are crap.”

  He held one up, biting back his annoyance when Taylor only flicked a glance at them. “Look at this. Why did you take a picture of a car parked on the side of the street? Or one of man eating a hamburger?” Jim sorted through the pictures. “Or how about this one. It’s my favorite. It’s the front door of an apartment.”

  He remained silent, so Jim stepped closer and kicked the leg of the guy’s chair.

  Taylor started, his eyes widening briefly. Jim bent, bringing his face within inches of the other man’s. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

  After the initial surprise, Taylor sighed and lifted his gaze. It rested in the vicinity of Jim’s face, but didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

  There was no spark. Just weariness and resignation.

  “Well, now that you’re awake, shall we get on with this?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Explain why you kept all these photos. They weren’t in your studio, they w
ere in a box under your bed.” Jim found the one of a baby wrapped in a towel. “Except for this one. This one was found on your person at the time of your arrest. Care to explain it? Is this a relative?”

  “No, sir. Not a relative. Just a baby.”

  “Why does a single guy keep pictures of an unrelated baby in his pocket?”

  The insinuation hadn’t been lost on Taylor and for one brief second, his eyes flashed anger. “That’s the last picture I changed.” He drew in a deep breath, as though the effort to speak taxed him. “That’s the end result.” His brow furrowed in confusion and he seemed to lose his train of thought. After a pause, he clarified, “She drowned in the first picture.”

  The statement caught Jim by surprise. Taylor sounded matter of fact.

  “So, after you...saved her, you took her picture as a memento?” It was hard to maintain the insinuation in his voice.

  “No. I puked. Then I was...arrested.” His head lolled back for a moment, as if he didn’t have the energy to hold it up. After a pause, he straightened, but it seemed to require incredible effort. “The photos change. If I succeed.”

  “Okay. I think I get it. You go on your little missions and keep the happy pictures as mementos. So, why did you keep the pictures of the attacks?”

  He focused on Jim, his eyes dull and filled with defeat. “As a reminder that I can’t fix everything.” Taylor swallowed, his throat bobbing as his gaze slid away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jim watched as the guards led Taylor away. The man shuffled out in the same manner he’d arrived, his shoulders hunched and head bowed.

  Bill remained at the table with him while the rest of the team left. “That was a bust.”