March Into Hell

by M. P. McDonald

  For a moment, the black-clad figure seemed defeated, but then his head rose, and he boomed, "Levate. Evenit diabolus.

  An instant later, the scene was gone. It didn't fade, it was just there one second and gone the next.

  A sense of impending doom raced through him. It was a dream. It had to have been. He probably just hadn't quite woken all the way up before coming into the kitchen.

  Despite his confidence that he'd just had the strangest, most realistic dream ever, a sense of urgency prodded him to action. As though released from a spell, his feet felt light, and his shoulders no longer ached as he sprinted to his bedroom and grabbed his cell phone. Flipping it open, he found Mark's number and called him.

  Voice-mail picked up and Jim snapped the phone closed. He dialed again, hoping that Mark hadn't reached the phone in time. Still no answer. He plopped on the edge of the bed and glanced at the bedside clock. Two-thirty in the morning. Where would Mark be at this time?

  His car keys and wallet sat on the night table. At this time of night, he could get to Taylor's place in less than fifteen minutes. By three, he'd be back home and in bed. He felt silly enough calling Taylor, but he couldn't shake the sense of urgency that screamed inside of him like a banshee from the Irish legends his grandma used to tell him.

  Jim grabbed his keys, stuffed his wallet in his pocket, and headed for the door before he could convince himself he was acting irrationally.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Fifteen minutes later, Jim pulled up in front of the studio and then wondered how he'd get Taylor's attention. He hunched into his jacket and shuffled a path through the light snow to the front door of the studio, hoping to find a doorbell for the loft. Having only been to Taylor's apartment a couple of times, he wasn't sure of the layout. He thought there was probably a back entrance in the alley behind the building.

  The alley was dark and Jim hesitated before rounding the corner. He quickly peeked around the building, relieved to see that the alley was empty. Still alert, Jim faced the back door and jumped back in surprise when the door swung open. "Taylor?" There was no answer, and in fact, taking a step closer, Jim realized that there was no one there. The wind must have blown the door. The hair on the back of Jim's neck prickled. Taylor might be a little odd, but he wasn't stupid. He'd never leave the back door to his business open all night.

  Jim rapped on the door. "Hello?"

  Nothing. A soft glow from an exit sign threw off just enough light to illuminate the entryway. Not seeing anything amiss down here, Jim cautiously climbed the steps, noting lots of little puddles scattered on the stairs, as though someone, or lots of someones had entered recently with wet feet. At the top, his stomach tightened when he saw the loft door gaping open. He paused outside it to listen. All was silent, and with a deep breath, he crept around the threshold wishing he'd thought to bring his weapon. He'd gotten out of the habit of carrying it since he spent the majority of his time behind a desk.

  Jim felt around for a light switch and swore when he found it and illuminated the room. His jaw clenched in reaction to the scene before him. It was obvious from the disarray, that something had happened here. The bedding hung off the mattress, the bedside table was completely overturned, and loose change dotted the floor. Stepping quickly over to the bathroom, he hoped maybe Taylor had felt ill and in a mad dash to the bathroom, had created the mess. It was a stretch, but he wanted to be sure. It was empty. Damn it.

  Careful not to disturb anything, Jim pulled out his cell phone and called Jessica Bishop.

  "Hello?" She sounded sleepy and confused.

  "Jessica, this is Jim Sheridan. I had a dream about--."

  "Jim? What in the world? It's almost four in the morning."

  "I know what time it is. Could you let me finish?" Jim continued surveying the loft, his gaze landing on Taylor's black leather jacket in a heap on the floor near the end of the sofa.

  "Okay, so what's the problem? I would kind of like to go back to sleep, if you don't mind."

  "Do you know where Mark is?"

  "Didn't we already cover this earlier today?"

  "Listen to me, it's important. I need to know where Mark is, and if you know, could you please enlighten me?"

  "And I told you before, he doesn't fax me his plans. Did you try calling him?"

  "I tried, but it went to voice mail. His loft isn't too far from my place, so I decided to drive over." He took a deep breath, and let it out before continuing, "Somethings happened here."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I was greeted by the back door flapping in the wind. Then I found Taylor's apartment all torn up. He's nowhere around." He could hear a soft sigh and creaking through the phone.

  "Sometimes he had trouble sleeping at night. He'd have flashbacks, and to forget about them, he'd go out for a run. That's probably what happened tonight."

  Mark had never told him about the flashbacks, and he felt a twinge of guilt, but nudged it aside for the moment. "Look, I suppose that might be possible, but I think I'm smart enough to recognize a crime scene when I see one."

  He paced from the side that contained the sleeping area to the kitchen at the far end. On his second pass, he halted suddenly, his attention zeroing in on several red smears on the sheets and more drops leading towards the living area. "There's blood on the sheets and floor."

  She swore, and even through the phone, he heard the worry in her voice. "Yeah, that doesn't sound good. I'll be right there."

  * * *

  Jim tried not to disturb anything while awaiting Jessica's arrival. A quick scan of the kitchen area didn't turn up anything out of the ordinary. A couple of dirty dishes in the sink and a nearly empty refrigerator all indicated nothing other than a typical single guy's apartment. He followed the blood trail to a pillar and circled the brick support looking for any abnormal findings. About four feet up, he spotted a small piece of white fabric caught on the edge of a brick. Peering more closely, he guessed that it was part of a t-shirt. Higher up, Jim saw several strands of dark hair and a small red stain. A feeling of dread washed over him with the realization that something violent had happened here.

  Unwilling to risk contaminating the scene, he stepped back and glanced at his watch. Mentally, he calculated how long it would take Jessica to jump into some clothes and drive here. At this time of night, the roads were practically empty, but it wouldn't be long before the morning rush began. He crossed to the window and watched, trying to piece together a scenario. Best case, Taylor had tripped into the pillar, cut himself and fell against the bed. The cut had needed stitches, and so he'd gone to the ER. Plausible, but improbable. Besides, Taylor's van was still out front.

  "Jim?" Jessica burst into the room a few minutes later, her long coat billowing out behind her. She came to an abrupt stop when she saw the mess and turned to Jim. "Is this how you found it?

  "Yes. And look here." He pointed to the evidence on the pillar. "There's more blood over there on the floor." He tried to ignore the way her face blanched and her eyes welled. Jim bent and pretended to examine the dry drops of blood dotting the hardwood; allowing her a moment to regain control of her emotions.

  A few seconds later, he straightened and asked, "What do you think?"

  She glanced at the blood on the floor and then over to the pillar before answering. "What I think...is that Mark didn't leave here of his own volition."

  "I agree, but who could have come in here and where could they have taken him?"

  With a short laugh, Jessica shrugged. "Well, with Mark, who knows? A month ago, I would have said no one, but now? With everything that's going on in the media?" She sighed and shook her head, meeting Jim's worried look with one of her own. "We need to call this in and get an evidence team out here."

  For some reason, he'd held out hope that she would have a rational explanation for this, something a lot more logical than what he'd seen in his dream. An explanation like Mark was a sloppy housekeeper or he had a new girlfriend he'd been staying with. Not
that either scenario sounded like Taylor, but it was a lot more likely than what he had. He gave a short nod of agreement, and pinched the bridge of his nose. As stupid as it sounded, he had to tell her about the dream.

  "Wait, Jessica. I came by because--damn, this sounds ridiculous--but I had a dream. A nightmare, really, and it involved Mark. Something bad was happening to him and it was as if I was right there watching it happen. Only it didn't feel like a dream." He hoped the last bit didn't sound as lame to her as it did to him.

  She stilled. "A dream? Like the kind Mark gets?"

  "I don't know." He rubbed a circle on his temple as the images from the dream flashed through his mind. "Maybe. In the dream, he was in trouble."

  "Trouble?" She moved towards him, her expression confused. "What kind of trouble?"

  He hesitated as the sick fear that he'd felt in the dream claimed him again, forming a ball of dread that lodged in his throat. His tongue felt thick as he said, "Mark was...they had him in a warehouse, and there was a bonfire. There were at least a dozen people kneeling in front of him. I couldn't see them clearly because they wore some kind of dark robes or something with hoods."

  The next part was the hardest, and as she came right up to him, he wished he didn't have to tell her.

  "Jim..." she pleaded.

  "First, just remember, this was only a dream, so don't get too upset, okay?"

  Her eyes narrowed.

  He sighed. "He was on a cross."

  She stepped back, her brows knit together. "What?"

  Jim fumbled for a way to explain it. It was too absurd to make it sound rational. "It was a cross, you know, like...Jesus."

  "You mean he was crucified?"

  The ball of dread dropped with a crash to his stomach. He nodded.

  "Oh come on. That's crazy." Her mouth twisted into a sickly smile.

  "I know. It's just that I've never had a dream like that in my life. I can recall it as clearly as if I just re-wound the tape and hit play."

  Understanding dawned on her features. "Mark describes his dreams like that."

  "Yes, I know." Jim wandered to the window and rubbed his forehead. Behind him, he heard Jessica's footsteps approach, and he glanced over his shoulder. "I never dream. Not that I can remember anyway, but tonight, it was vivid-- like I was part of it."

  Remembering how he'd been paralyzed in the dream, he added, "I was there, but nobody acknowledged me. I couldn't act on what I was seeing, but I could hear and see everything."

  Jessica touched his arm, her hand tightening. "Was Mark alive?"

  It was the one piece of good news he could give her. "Yes. At least, he was in the dream."

  She released his arm with a shaky breath. "I'm going to call this in."

  While she called 9-1-1, Jim tried to make sense of what he had dreamed and what they had found in Mark's loft. The time he had worked closely with Mark had been the Wrigley Field case, and Mark had been able to relate the details of his dreams in a straightforward manner. Plus, he had the photos to back up what he said. Jim had no photos so his dream was just that. A dream. A very realistic one, but the chance of it coming true was about as likely as Jim shooting fire out of his fingertips.

  "I had a hard time convincing them to send a car. Only when I mentioned the blood did they consent to take a look." She looked around the room, and he saw uncertainty on her face. "You know, I should call Lily Martin. She might know where Mark is."

  Jim did a double-take at the tone of her voice, and when her cheeks pinked, he understood. "Do they have a relationship? I mean besides that of business partners?"

  She shrugged. "It's none of my affair, but it just occurred to me, he's probably there all snug as a bug in a rug, while we're here worrying about him because of a dream you had. That isn't exactly something I want to put in a report."

  Jim had to admit, the evidence of foul play was less than overwhelming, especially if someone didn't know Mark. A messy room and a few drops of dried blood. Taylor was a grown man and Jim had spoken to him less than ten hours ago.

  "Mark sees the future in his dreams, right? So all of this should happen tomorrow, not now--if it's even true--which I highly doubt." It all sounded so preposterous he couldn't believe he was even discussing it.

  "The problem, Jim, is that Mark is gone now, not tomorrow. We need to find him before what you saw in your dream takes place." She had her cell phone open. "I think I have Lily's number on here. Yeah, I knew it." She pressed a button and held the phone to her ear, but spoke to Jim, "I can't believe I'm hoping he's there."

  He nodded and stopped suddenly when he spied the phone he'd issued Mark. It was half beneath the sofa, a scattering of coins around it, as though all had been knocked off the coffee table. From the worried look on Jessica's face, he guessed Mark wasn't at Lily's. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he strode to the sofa and snatched the phone and slipped it into his pocket. It wouldn't be a good idea for police to find it. Everything was encoded and scrambled, but they'd wonder why a guy like Mark had a secure phone.

  "She hasn't seen him since he went up to his loft shortly before seven p.m."

  Red lights flashed against the windows, and a minute later, two police officers entered the loft.

  Leaving Jessica to explain the situation, he headed towards the door. "I'll go downstairs and get out of the way." The last thing he wanted was to be identified as a Fed. It was better to keep a low profile and let Jessica do all the talking. Within ten minutes, the studio was crawling with police officers. Within twenty, the media had gotten wind that something was up and a half-dozen news vans were parked around the building.

  Jim walked through the office, noting that all looked in order as far as he could tell. He knew Mark kept his special photos in a file cabinet down here, but to anyone looking, they would appear to be just random photos, and not very good ones at that.

  He opened the file drawer and flipped through the photos, checking the dates Mark had written on the back. There wasn't one dated today. That meant he hadn't used the camera today, or at least, he hadn't developed the film. It was a long shot, but maybe there was a photo depicting the horrifying scene Jim had dreamed. He raced back upstairs and nearly crashed into a police officer coming down the steps.

  "Whoa there, buddy. This is a restricted area now as a possible crime scene."

  He had to get to that camera, no matter the obstacles. Not only could it hold the answer to where Mark was now, if it went into a police evidence locker, it could disappear forever. With a hard stare, he pulled out his wallet and flashed his badge.

  Technically, this wouldn't be considered his jurisdiction, but there were ways around that. "I'm a Federal officer with an interest in this case. Right now, I have to get back in there to check for something."

  The officer glanced at Jim's badge and hesitated. The guy wasn't a young rookie and Jim could see that the man wasn't intimidated, but probably just running through his options in his mind. Before he could come to some conclusion, Jim blew past him and ignored the call to stop.

  Jessica was in the kitchen nodding to something a uniformed cop was saying, her arms crossed as she watched the activity in the apartment.

  Jim motioned to her, his manner urgent. Her forehead knit in confusion as she waved off something the uniform was asking and crossed to Jim.

  "What?"

  "Where does he keep his camera?" The uniformed cop appeared at the top of the stairs.

  She turned and pointed to the bed in the far corner. "On his bedside table."

  Damn. The only thing he saw was a clock radio blinking at the floor. "Distract the cop coming in, okay?"

  Jessica seemed to know the officer, and with her running interference, he hurried to the bed and knelt, not caring if he destroyed evidence. The comforter hung on the floor and he lifted it out of his way and almost shouted with relief. The camera appeared intact under the bed. He snagged it and tucked it inside his coat, then tightened the belt, hoping the cut of the trench coat
would hide the bulge.

  Jessica pointed to the pillar and the cop approached it. While the officer's attention was diverted, Jim sauntered towards the door.

  * * *

  As Jim waited, he listened to the chatter of the cops as they hurried in and out of the studio and loft. The evidence team had found tire tracks in the snow behind the studio along with dozens of footprints. What had everyone really worried were the faint prints of someone who was barefoot. Measurement of that print corresponded to the size of Taylor's shoes up in his loft. That, along with the blood and hair had been ample enough evidence that the whole building was now cordoned off with yellow police tape.

  A uniformed officer poked his head into the studio. "Officer Sheridan, there's a Lily Martin outside; says she needs to speak to you."

  Jim glanced around, ready to have the officer bring Lily back, but then thought better of it. The fewer people who entered the room, the less chance of destroying any evidence that might turn up. He stood and circled the desk. "I'll go outside to talk to her. Could you let Detective Bishop know that I'll be in my car?"

  The young cop nodded. "Yes, sir."

  Walking through the studio, Jim exited the building, squinting in the glare of the bright lights from the television news cameras. Lily stood off to Jim's right.

  "Excuse me, sir. Can you state who you are and what can you tell us about the disappearance of Mark Taylor?" A slew of microphones were shoved in Jim's face. He blinked against the lights and batted away a microphone.

  "Do you think this has anything to do with all the talk about Taylor's claim to have divine powers?"

  "Is it true that the police believe Taylor was kidnapped? What did you find?"

  Jim held up his hands. "You need to direct your questions to the Chicago P.D. I'm not affiliated with the department."

  "Is it true that you're with the CIA and why is the CIA involved in this investigation?"