He pushed past her to the edge of the stage. Judy Medea lay crumpled, a paramedic in the act of covering her with a yellow blanket, but he caught a glimpse of her before it settled over her face. His stomach flipped, and it was all he could do to hold onto its contents.
Mark backed away, pointing towards Medea. "Two people are dead, Jessie. And for what? I don't understand." The shaking that had been present since he'd come to, intensified. "It's so damn pointless!"
"You're in shock, Mark. You need to sit."
"I don't want to sit. I want to get the hell out of here."
She reached for his arm, but he shrugged her off, and made for the back of the stage. He ignored her calls to come back and heard Jim tell her to let him go. Back in the office, he ran both hands through his hair, bent at the waist as he tried to choke back the anger and sorrow. It didn't help. The pain intensified and he sagged to sit on the edge of the old desk. He was supposed to have stopped this. It was why he had the dreams, but it hadn't worked. Their attempt to manipulate the dream had failed.
Voices approached the office. Why wouldn't anyone just leave him alone? He straightened and grabbed his jacket before pushing out the door and into the alley. Instead of the solitude he sought, he found police cars, flashing lights and dozens of people. He turned to the front of the building, intending to find a cab or walk to the 'L', steeling himself to pass through the throngs of people and police.
"Mark Taylor!"
As soon as the crowd spotted him, he didn't have a chance to escape unnoticed. The crowd closed in. Police reacted quickly, corraling the people behind a cordon of yellow tape. News vans already parked along the street, their blinding lights focused on the warehouse. It was a madhouse.
"Mr. Taylor, could I speak with you for a minute?"
The voice was familiar and Mark turned, seeking it out. A woman waved him over. He recognized her from somewhere, and he started towards her. When he was close enough, she stuck out her hand. "Hello Mark. I'm Denise Jeffries. We spoke on the phone a few weeks ago."
Mark stopped dead. The reporter. His throat tightened. So many images flashed through his mind. His crucifixion, the crowds pawing at him and Medea lying dead in the warehouse, her brains splashed across the floor.
"You!" Ignoring her hand, he pointed at her. "You did this! You wanted your story, and didn't give a damn who got hurt. Well, now you have an even bigger story. Congratulations."
He didn't wait for her to respond, but turned and shoved his hands in his pockets as he stalked past the crowds, glowering at anyone who came near.
A block later, the crowds were gone and the street all but deserted. He headed for the closest 'L' and climbed the steps to the platform. It was empty and he wasn't sure when the next train would come, but it didn't matter. Eventually, one would arrive.
Mark eased down to sit on the bench, holding his ribs. It was as quiet as night time in Chicago ever got. Distantly, sirens wailed, a door slammed and the ever present hum of traffic filled the air. A shudder coursed through him. With nobody around to see, he allowed the sob, stifled for so long, to escape.
* * * * * *
Acknowledgments
I'd like to extend a huge thank you to Lala Price, Deb Ivy, Al Kunz, Allirea Brumley, Vickie Boehnlein and Imogen Rose for their help in editing.
Also, special thanks to Jessica Tate because without our one hour writing sessions, I'm not sure how I would have ever finished this.
I welcome comments at [email protected] or you can visit my blog at:
http://www.mmcdonald64.blogspot.com
March Into Hell Page 26
