Mark sat in the chair and turned the television off. The last thing he wanted to see was more coverage of what had happened to him. When he had woken up this morning, the local news had been filming from right outside the hospital, and Mark had been amazed at all the people gathered out there. He hadn’t had a chance to watch any coverage before, and it hadn’t occurred to him that he was the main topic in the news.
There was so much else on his mind that the events prior to the assault seemed distant. Apparently, what had happened to him had fired up the public’s interest. He took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with already.
There was a light knock on his door and Mark looked over to see Scott Palmer standing in the threshold. Warring emotions battled in his mind. Dread that he would have to talk—yet again—about what had happened. Already, he could feel his heart speed up. A glimmer of hope tried to balance the dread. Hope that this man would be able to help him sort out all his turbulent feelings so that they would finally quiet down and he would feel like himself again. He hated the way he felt right now. It was like riding a never-ending roller coaster.
“Mark?” Scott stepped into the room and approached him. “I’m Dr. Scott Palmer. We met last week, remember?” There was an awkward moment when Scott stuck out his hand and Mark reached to shake it, then remembered the bandages around his palm. He hesitated and Scott cleared his throat and let his own hand drop to his side. “Ah, sorry about that. I guess it’s not a good idea to shake hands just yet.”
Mark nodded and tried to smooth over the moment. “Of course I remember you. How is little Thomas?” It surprised Mark that Scott didn’t have a pad of paper or anything.
Scott smiled. “Thomas is great. Keeping us busy and on our toes as usual. Every night, we say a prayer thanking God for sending you to catch him.” He sat on the edge of the bed, facing Mark and held his hands loosely clasped in front of him.
Swallowing, Mark looked away. Did God have something to do with sending him to save Thomas? He had asked himself similar questions ever since he'd realized the camera delivered photos of things that hadn't yet happened. How did it work and why did it allow him to save some people but not others? Mark felt resentment well up. Why wasn’t he able to save himself? If God had given him the camera and inspired the dreams, why would he would put Mark through all that? Was it a punishment? Had he done something wrong?
“Are you okay, Mark?”
“Yeah…sorry about that. I kind of zoned out there,” Mark mumbled, feeling his face flame. “I was just thinking about some things. I’m glad I was there too. I got lucky and was just in the right place at the right time for once.” He scratched the back of his head and tried to smile. It felt stiff and phony but he attempted to keep it pasted on even as Scott gave him a skeptical look.
“Right time, right place?” Scott stood and ambled to the window.
Mark watched him glance down towards the front of the building. The psychiatrist was quiet for a moment, but his expression was alert and Mark could see him watching the media down below. Finally, he nodded towards the crowd and not taking his eyes from them said, “You know that you’ve been big news this last week.”
Mark took that as a statement and not a question so he kept silent and wondered where Scott was going with this.
“I’ve heard dozens of stories where you’ve been in the right place at the right time.” Scott finally turned from the window and leaned a hip on the ledge. He gave Mark a grin, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “You must have impeccable timing, Mark Taylor.”
Mark had to laugh at that comment, he couldn't help it. “Yeah. I guess I do…sometimes.” He sobered at the last word.
“Sometimes?”
Mark picked at a bit of bandage adhesive on the back of his left hand and gave a half shrug. “I’m not always where I need to be at the time I need to be there. Or I am, but something changes and I…I fail at what I was there to do.” He knew what he said wouldn’t make much sense but couldn’t think how to explain it without telling about the camera.
“How did you feel when you failed?” Scott regarded him, his brown eyes reminding Mark of a serious, adult version of little Thomas’s.
A spark of anger ignited in him. He leaned forward and said, “How did I feel? How do you think I’d feel after allowing people to die? I felt like--” Biting back a curse, he sat back hard and avoided Scott’s gaze by focusing on the trees outside his window. Tiny green buds dotted the branches.
“Allowing? That’s kind of an odd choice of words.”
Mark heard a rustle of clothing then the tap of footsteps and he glanced at the psychiatrist. Scott was pulling a chair from the other side of the room towards the windows and Mark winced when one of the legs scraped the floor with a harsh sound. Scott didn’t set it directly in front of Mark; instead he angled it facing the windows.
“I hope you don’t mind if I sit?”
Motioning towards the chair, Mark nodded. “Be my guest.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Mark. Did you intend for anyone to die? Did you stand by and do nothing?”
Mark’s eyes narrowed. “Of course not. I couldn’t stand by and watch someone die and not try to help. But I should have tried harder. Maybe what happened to me was…” He scrubbed a hand down his face and pinched the bridge of his nose before letting his hand drop. “…was payback. For not doing what I was supposed to do.” He slumped in the chair, his elbow propped on the arm and his hand supporting his head. It was all becoming clear to him now. Not only had he failed at making some saves over the years, but he had let the secret of the camera out when he'd been interrogated.
“What were you were supposed to do? Why do you think it was up to you to do anything?”
Mark sighed. “Because it’s what I do.” He had turned his face so that his mouth was half- covered by his hand and the statement came out muffled. “I have to change things.”
“I don’t follow you, Mark.” Scott’s voice held a questioning note and when Mark glanced at him, he saw the doctor’s brow furrowed in confusion.
Dropping his hand, Mark straightened in the chair. What the hell...he might as well tell Scott about the camera. What more could it do to punish him? And he was just so tired of pretending. “You’re here officially, right?” Mark swallowed hard and continued, “I mean, as my psychiatrist…not just dropping in to say hello or anything...”
Scott held his gaze, steady and unwavering. “Yes, Mark, that’s correct.”
“Well, you probably already suspect that I’m crazy, so what I’m about to tell you will just confirm it.” Mark laughed, the sound sharp and bitter.
* * *
Scott winced at Mark’s harsh laughter. He could hear the underlying pain and saw the way he held himself, as if bracing for an attack. “If you want to tell me something, it will be held in confidence, if that’s what you’re worried about. As far as crazy, well, I can tell you right now that after years of experience dealing with mentally unstable people, you don’t seem to fit the bill.”
Mark’s eyes flickered with hope, but it was replaced almost immediately with a guarded look. Whatever he was about to tell Scott was causing him to put up a protective front.
“I…I have a special camera, and when I use it, I get photos of future events. Always tragedies, never any good stuff." Mark's mouth twisted into a wry grin. "It would be great if I got photos of winning lottery tickets, but so far, it's always bad stuff. Anyway, most days…well, except for while I’ve been here in the hospital, I take the photos, develop them, and that night, I dream the details.”
Although brimming with questions, Scott decided to just sit back and listen without asking anything until Mark was done speaking. When the other man paused, he encouraged, “Go on, I’m listening.”
At first, Mark had looked down while speaking, but now he met Scott's eyes. “I use the information to fix things… to save people. It’s what I do.”
Scott
nodded. It was apparent that Mark completely believed what he was saying.
Surprise flashed on Mark’s face. “Well, that’s pretty much it. I don't know how it works or why I'm the only one it seems to work for, as far as the dreams go. Just lucky, I guess." A self-mocking grin faded. "I used to wonder but…” He took a deep breath and gave a small shrug, wincing slightly. “I gave up questioning it…until now.”
Scott had more questions and while he wanted to believe Mark, it was an incredible tale. He'd treated many patients over the years who suffered from an altered sense of reality. Many thought they had special abilities. Some believed that they could fly; others claimed to read minds or to hear voices telling them the future. This was the first time that anyone had claimed to be able to foretell the future with the aid of a camera and dreams.
“Have you spoken to anyone else about this…gift…of yours?” Scott tried to phrase the question as neutrally as he possibly could, but his skepticism must have slipped through anyway. Mark faced him, his eyes boring into Scott while anger, hurt and then resignation slid through their depths.
Mark’s voice was like cold, hard granite. “Yes, as a matter of fact I have. I was imprisoned for over a year. Those guys...the interrogators...they know how to get a man to confess to anything if it'll make the questioning stop."
Scott tried to keep his expression neutral, but this was news he hadn't expected. "So, these interrogators—they believed you?"
Mark looked out the window briefly before dropping his gaze to the floor. “No. Not at first. I tried proving it one time, when I predicted the questions and outcome of an interrogation session, but...months went by. I don't know if it helped, but eventually, I was released due to lack of evidence."
Scott had to ask. "Evidence of what?"
"Terrorism."
The comment was so matter of fact, Scott had to replay it in his mind to make sure he'd heard correctly. "Terrorism?"
Mark's skin took on a pink tinge that Scott detected even with the pallor from the man's recent blood loss.
He looked Scott straight in the eye and said, "I didn't do anything, so you can stop worrying. Since my release, I have a few people who believe me...but I can't go into details. I...I shouldn't even be telling you. I've been told the camera is now classified information."
“Ah.” Scott couldn’t believe how disappointed he felt. “I see.” He was beginning to believe that this was a very unusual case because Mark didn’t display any of the normal symptoms of being delusional. He didn’t ramble, he made eye contact and he seemed perfectly sane, except for this one specific delusion. Classified information. The perfect excuse not to give information and paranoid schizophrenic people often claimed government conspiracies and connections.
“It's true. There was an incident at the Cubs game last summer that I helped the government prevent...but my part in it was kept under wraps.” Mark’s voice sounded defensive as he stood and hobbled a few steps to the window, leaning against the sill. He was quiet for a long moment while his eyes seemed to focus on something out in the park across the street. Scott noticed Mark’s throat working as if he was going to say something, but he didn't, and after a moment, his shoulders slumped as though in defeat.
Scott sighed. He wanted to help this man so badly, but he was at a loss. He decided to change the focus from the camera to Mark’s mood swings and possible depression. “I wonder if you could tell me about your outburst yesterday. What triggered it?”
Mark’s mouth twisted into a humorless smile and he shook his head ruefully as he turned from the window. “You’ll have to be more specific. Which outburst are you talking about?”
“Whichever one you want to talk about.”
Mark gave him a long look and sat down again. “You’re good at this psychiatric stuff, aren’t you?”
Scott smiled. At least Mark looked calmer now, but Scott still kept a watchful eye on him. He’d learned long ago that patients tended to have mercurial mood swings and were unpredictable.
“I was talking to Jessie and Jim--”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but who are they? Just so I can keep it all straight.”
“That’s okay. They’re friends, sort of. I found out yesterday that--” Mark stopped and his gaze dropped to the floor again, or maybe his feet, Scott wasn’t sure. “—they were the ones who found me. I guess I had a hard time with that.”
“Why did it bother you, Mark?” Scott observed his patient and noted how his skin flushed.
“It bothered me because I can imagine how I looked up there. I feel so stupid!” Mark swallowed and kept his head lowered. “Of all the people to find me, it had to be them."
"Why is that a problem?"
"Because they'll think less of me."
“Why do you care what they think of you?”
Mark raised his head and sighed. but kept his face averted. “I guess because I really respect them a lot. Jim…well, he’s a good guy." He paused and laughed. "If he heard me say that, he'd think for sure I'd gone off the deep end.”
"Why is that?"
"Because he was one of my interrogators."
Either Mark was one of the most forgiving guys in the world, or as an interrogator, this Jim fellow had created a kind of Stockholm-type bond with his prisoner. Interesting concept.
“And you think that he’ll think less of you now that he’s seen you at what you perceive to be your lowest point?”
Mark nodded. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and fingers for a few seconds and then cleared his throat. Scott thought he was going to say something more but he didn’t, he just took a deep breath and let it out slowly…shakily.
“And the other person…Jessie? Will he think the same thing?”
Mark shook his head. “She.”
“Excuse me?”
“Jessie…she’s a woman. Jessica.” Mark’s face turned a deep red and things became a little clearer to Scott.
“Do you have feelings for her?”
“We tried to have a relationship, but it didn't work.” Mark’s voice was low and Scott had to lean forward to hear him.
“How come?”
“How come? I’ll tell you how come.” Mark lurched out of the chair and turned to face Scott. “Because she thought I was a kook as it was, before I went to prison.” He waved his hand in front of himself to indicate the injuries, “And now there's all this. Life with me is a non-stop party. What's next? Burning at the stake? Beheading? I can't ask a woman I love to deal with all of this."
Scott held up a hand. "Hold on, let me ask you something. Why don't you just stop using this camera?" He spread his hands wide. "All your problems would be solved."
Mark shook his head. "I...I tried doing that several times, but I can't. It's like a drug." He tried to run a hand through his hair, but the tape got caught, and he glared at it before letting his hand drop to his side. "I can't sleep, I have crazy dreams, and it just won't let me alone. It's become worse since I started using it after I got out of prison. It's as though it's trying to make up for lost time. Almost every day, I have to use it, or I'd never get any sleep."
Despite his skepticism, Scott was intrigued with how detailed Mark’s story about the camera had become. In what he felt was a stroke of genius, Scott decided to change tact and use Mark’s delusion to actually try and help him get past this feeling of shame. “Hmmm…how do you view victims that you save? Do you feel like they should be embarrassed because of what has happened to them?”
Mark shot him a look. “I know what you’re getting at, but it’s not the same. I have all this baggage already.” He fell silent for a moment and appeared to be watching the crowd out front. Pointing vaguely towards the gathering, Mark spoke, his tone bitter, “Look at them, Doc. They think I’m some kind of…of savior…or something.” He shook his head. “And you think I’m a nut.”
Sighing, he turned to face Scott. “But I’m neither of those things. I’m just a guy. Just a regular guy.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
“Hey, Jessie, I got a possible lead on Kern’s whereabouts.” Dan strode into their office, tossing his overcoat onto the coat tree as he passed.
Jessie glanced up from a report she had been skimming. “Really?" She closed the folder and leaned back in her chair, following Dan with her eyes as he settled at his desk. “Where is he and how did you get the info?”
“It's actually a lead on Medea, but I'm hoping where she is, he can't be far away. A CTA bus driver called in a tip. He saw her on his bus this morning, and he noted where she got off. It was the 5000 block of West Jackson Boulevard."
"That corresponds to something I discovered."
Dan tilted his head. "You discovered?"
Jessie felt her face heat. "Okay, I get it, I'm off the case, but that doesn't mean I can't analyze the information that's here already." She waved a hand over the pile of files in her out box. "All I have to keep me busy is some scut work on old cases."
She saw a softening of his expression and pressed on, "One thing in Mark's favor is the public interest in this. The phone’s been ringing off the hook with tips. I know I’m not on the case officially, but there’s a stack of tips received since last night sitting on your desk. I took about the last ten of them.” Jessie pointed to the pile of notes. It was a small thing, but at least it helped her feel like she was doing something to help.
Dan leaned forward and sorted through the papers. “Hmmm…some of this looks worthless, but there’s a few that might pan out.”
"What's this about Mexico?"
"I'll get to that. I took some notes on some of the more promising ones and that one was the prime tip.” Jessie opened her desk drawer and pulled out a large notepad.
“Whoa, hold on a second. You took notes on my case? What else did you do? Call up the tipsters?”
March Into Hell Page 16
