Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series) Page 14

  There was no change in Christy’s color. Shit. Those paramedics better get here pronto. Why didn’t someone else step forward to do the CPR? Hell, there had to be someone more qualified. There was supposed to be a pulse point near the elbow, but damned if he could find it. It wasn’t like he’d ever searched for one on a healthy kid before let alone one who might not have one. Was that it? He prodded the inside of her arm, but between his shaking hands and the pudgy cushion at the bend of her elbow, he couldn’t feel a beat.

  Go to the source. He put his ear to her chest. Nothing. He swallowed hard as he placed two fingers on her breastbone and pushed down. The feel of her tiny chest caving in with each compression made his stomach churn.

  He lost count of the cycles of breaths and compressions. It seemed like forever before someone suggested he stop and check for a pulse again. The mom had returned to his side at some point, but his vision had narrowed to Christy’s little body cradled in his arms. Mom stroked Christy’s forehead and pleaded with her to breathe.

  Listen to your mama, sweetie. Breathe, dammit. Wait...was she pinker? Or was it wishful thinking? He paused the compressions, but gave another breath.

  As he lifted her to listen for a heartbeat, Christy blinked.

  Startled, he jerked his head back and glanced at the mom to see if she’d noticed it too. Her eyes full of anguish and fear, lit with a spark of hope as she met his look. It hadn’t been his imagination.

  Christy shuddered, and then coughed. Mark sat her up as she gagged, worried she was choking. She rewarded his efforts by puking sour milk down the front of him. She cried then, the sound as soft as a newborn kitten’s. Impulsively, he kissed the top of her head.

  A cheer rose in the hallway, and Mark glanced around, astonished to see so many people. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. The mother took her daughter from Mark, but planted a kiss on his cheek. The elevator at the far end of the hall opened, and paramedics stepped out.

  Sure. Now they show up. Mark laughed, unable to suppress the giddiness. He took a deep breath, and leaned against the wall, his knees wobbling like Jello. He swiped his arm across his forehead. It was like a damn sauna in here. People crowded around, slapping Mark’s shoulders and pumping his hand. Someone handed him a towel and he used it to mop up the mess on the front of his leather jacket, but there wasn’t much he could do for the bit that leaked inside.

  “Good job, man!” The speaker looked to be early to mid-thirties, close to Mark’s own age. “That was awesome!”

  “Thanks.” Mark opened his mouth to ask if he could use a bathroom to wash up, when his stomach lurched and the bitter taste of bile filled his mouth. Panic surged through him and he rushed into the nearest apartment with an open door. He spotted a hallway and found the bathroom just in time for his lunch to make a return visit.

  Spitting out the vile taste, he flushed the toilet and moved to the sink to wash, scooping some water into his mouth and swished it around. He dried his hands on a towel hanging over the shower curtain. He reached for the doorknob, but stopped and pulled the photo out of his back pocket, just to make sure. The picture had only one similarity with the one he’d put in his pocket only minutes before. The baby was still Christy, but now, she was grinning at the camera, showing off two pearly white bottom teeth. It was official. He’d erased another photo.

  There was a knock on the door a second before Mark opened it.

  “You okay?” It was the guy from the hall. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.

  Mark nodded and motioned towards the toilet “Yeah. Just feeling the nerves. Sorry for barging in.”

  The man laughed and stuck out a hand. “No problem. I’m Jason.”

  “Mark.” He clasped the man’s hand and gave it a shake.

  Jason gave Mark a speculative look. “A few minutes before that happened,” he pointed his chin towards the hall, “someone buzzed my apartment, saying they had to get in—that it was an emergency.”

  Mark tried to play it cool as he edged towards the hallway. “Yeah?”

  “That was you, wasn’t it?” It was a statement.

  “I...uh—”

  Jason waved a hand and cut him off. “No worries, dude. I was just curious. I had a grandfather who used to get premonitions. It was spooky. Never thought I’d meet someone else like that. Glad I let you in.”

  Rattled and still shaking from the flood of adrenaline, Mark could only nod. He breathed a sigh of relief when Jason motioned for him to go first as they went out to the hall.

  They watched as the paramedics started an IV on the protesting Christy, and he winced at the blood oozing around the IV site. Poor little thing. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to find a Chicago police officer behind him.

  “Sir, can I ask you a few questions?”

  Mark shoved his hands into his pockets to hide the shaking and shrugged. “Sure.”

  He asked Mark’s name and for some ID. After speaking some cop code into his shoulder radio, he glanced at Mark’s driver’s license. “You don’t live here, so why were you in the building?”

  Mark pulled at the collar of his shirt under his coat. Necessity forced him to lie in these situations and he hated it, but the truth was far too complicated. Experience allowed his story to slip easily off his tongue. “I intended to visit a friend, and when I got to the building, someone was coming out, so rather than buzz, I just caught the door. When I got up here, I realized I had the wrong building.” He forced a laugh. “My buddy’s building looks a lot like this one and I guess I got them mixed up.” Mark shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. He was rambling and decided to cut the explanation short. “It’s about time my faulty memory came in handy.”

  Luck was with him and the officer chuckled. “It sure did. You did a great job.”

  Mark dipped his head as heat rushed up his cheeks. “Thanks.”

  The cop’s radio squawked, and in the midst of indecipherable code, Mark heard his own name.

  The officer cocked his head, his gaze fixed on Mark as he reached up to key the mic. “10-9?”

  The message was repeated and the officer tensed, his eyes cold as he acknowledged it and requested back-up. With one hand hovering over his weapon, he pointed at Mark with the other. “Turn around and place your hands on the wall.”

  Confused, Mark hesitated. “What...why?”

  “Hands on the wall. Now!”

  The commanding tone jolted Mark into action and he nearly tripped in his haste to comply. ”Listen, sir, can I just ask—”

  “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. The officer grabbed Mark’s arm. “I’ve been told to bring you in for questioning.”

  “Who wants to talk to me? Why?”

  The few people still milling in the hallway fell silent.

  The cop glanced at the watching crowd and hesitated. “Unpaid parking tickets.”

  Parking tickets? Since when did they go to this much trouble for parking tickets? What the hell was going on? He twisted to see the cop’s face. “I don’t owe on any tickets. What’s this really about?”

  Jason stepped forward and pulled out his wallet. “Look, officer, the dude just saved a baby. What does he owe? I’ll pay it.”

  “Step aside; this isn’t any of your affair.”

  “Come on, man, don’t be a hard-ass.” Jason smiled at the cop, and gestured towards Mark. “I mean, this guy doesn’t exactly look like Charles Manson.”

  Jason’s attempt at humor backfired when the cop offered to let Jason accompany Mark.

  Jason glared at the cop before casting an apologetic look at Mark. “Sorry. I tried.”

  Mark nodded. His face burned as the bystanders—the same people who’d cheered him just a few minutes before—now pointed fingers, and whispered to each other.

  The cop’s fingers dug into Mark’s bicep. “Come on. You got some people waiting to meet you.”

  “Who?” This was going way too far for a few tickets that he couldn’t even remember get
ting. “You sure you got the right Mark Taylor?”

  The fingers tightened again as the cop frog-marched him towards the elevator. Mark balked. This was crazy. When the cop pressed him forward, he didn’t think, he just reacted, jerking his arm free. “Quit pushing me!” The second the words left his mouth, he wanted to suck them back in.

  “Get down! Right now. On your knees.” The cop pulled his baton and prodded Mark with it.

  “Whoa! Calm down. I just want to know the truth. I have that right, don’t I?”

  “I’m not going to tell you again.” The radio blasted a sharp tone, and Mark started at the sudden noise.

  The cop mistook Mark’s reflex and swung the baton. Mark ducked his head and the blow landed with a thud against his shoulder. Pain rocketed down his arm like he’d touched a live wire. He sank to his knees. Two more blows landed on his back. He bit his lip to keep from crying out as he fell face-down on the floor, his nose buried in the dank, musty carpet.

  The bystanders yelled at the cop while the cop shouted for them to shut up. Without pausing, the officer ordered Mark to lie down. Confused, Mark attempted to lift his face away from the nasty floor to tell him he was already lying down, but a sudden sharp pressure in the middle of his back pinned him to the floor.

  He fought to breathe as his arms were wrenched behind him and cuffed. He managed to turn his head, the skin on his face pulling painfully taut as he sucked in air.

  The door from the stairwell burst open and three more officers ran towards them, pulling their batons as they charged down the hall. Two men in suits followed, their manner and attitude exuded an aura of power and authority.

  The first to reach Mark flashed a badge at him, but Mark couldn’t get a clear look from his angle on the floor.

  “I’m Special Agent Johnson and this is Special Agent Monroe. We have a warrant for your arrest as material witness to terrorist acts against the United States.”

  Two

  Jessie looked up at the knock on her door jamb. “Hey, Dan. What’s up?”

  “Lieutenant wants to talk to you.” Her partner avoided her questioning gaze and before she could ask him what it was about, he turned away and rushed down the hall to the men’s room. Figures he’d hideout in the one place she couldn’t follow him. Whatever. She grabbed her jacket and shrugged it on and strode to her boss’s office.

  “Excuse me, sir? You want to see me?” She glanced at the file he held in his hands.

  Lieutenant O’Hanrahan glanced up from a paper he was reading. The desktop was covered with more papers. “Yes, Detective Bishop, I do. Have a seat.” He gestured to the chair on her side of the desk. He put the paper on top of the others, and straightened the mess into a neat stack, before slipping them into a folder.

  Jessie waited, but his obvious stalling made her nervous. “So...?”

  “Detective Bishop, I’ve heard from various sources, that you’re dating a man named Mark Taylor?”

  Jessie straightened, squaring her shoulders. Is that all this was about? She’d already talked to Internal Affairs about this. “Yes, I am, but it’s okay, sir. I discussed it with IA and made sure that I wasn’t breaking any regulations. Mark had a few scrapes with us before, but he was cleared every time.”

  O’Hanrahan nodded. “Yes, I’m aware of that, but I’m afraid this is different. Your...boyfriend is in custody right now—”

  “What? Why?” Jessie scooted to the edge of her seat. What had Mark gotten into this time? It had only been, what? Four months since the last time he’d been questioned when he interfered with an investigation. He promised it wouldn’t happen again. She gripped the sides of the chair. He’d better hope they locked him up, because if not, she was going to kill him.

  “Hear me out, I wasn’t finished. It’s not us who have him—it’s the Feds. Taylor had a run in with one of our guys, and when it came over the radio, the Feds called and said they want him. It seems they were preparing to arrest him, when lo and behold, his name pops up on the scanners.”

  All thoughts of murder flew from her mind. “The FBI? What do they want with Mark?” Her pulse quickened.

  “It has to do with September 11th. They want to question him about it.” He held up a hand when Jessie opened her mouth to ask more questions. “Hold it, that’s all I know. I just thought I’d give you a heads-up.”

  It took Jessie a few seconds to realize that O’Hanrahan was done. “Sir, would I be able to talk to him?”

  Her lieutenant regarded her with a mixture of pity and regret. “I can send the request up the chain, but it’s doubtful. At least, not right away. I do have the name of the special agent in charge. It’s Johnson. “

  “Thank you.” At least it was a place to start. She stood, amazed that her legs held her. “Did they take him to the Metropolitan Correctional Center?”

  O’Hanrahan nodded. “I expect FBI will have some questions for you as well.”

  That hadn’t occurred to her, but she’d welcome the interview. Mark had some peculiarities, but she had no doubt he was a good guy.

  * * *

  A bead of sweat raced down Mark’s back, and he could feel more gathering on his brow. The room stank of stale cigarettes and body odor. He picked at a cigarette burn on the scarred table. How long were they going to keep him waiting? It had to have been at least an hour, but there were no clocks in the room so he didn’t know for sure. The window on his right reflected only the inside of the room and he knew it had to be a two-way mirror.

  The door opened and Mark’s heart tripled its rate. Even though he wanted to straighten the mess out and had wished someone would come talk to him, a shiver of fear shook his body. Johnson led a new group of agents into the room. He carried a folder and set it on the table across from Mark.

  The agent sat and took out a pair of glasses, perching them on the end of his nose. Mark hunched over the table, keenly aware of the two remaining Feds flanking him.

  Johnson tapped the folder with one index finger. “I have some very disturbing information about you, Mr. Taylor. Especially in light of recent events.”

  “There’s an explanation. This is all just a misunderstanding.” Mark’s head ached and he rubbed his temples.

  “Do you admit that you made a series of phone calls on the morning of September 11th to various government agencies?” He opened the folder and sorted through several documents. Running a finger down a line of print, he added, “Calls that began a full three hours before the planes hit?”

  “Well, yeah. Of course I admit that. I left my name.”

  “How did you come by your information?” Johnson leaned towards Mark and said, “And I must caution you that withholding important details will only make it go worse for you.”

  “It’s gonna sound crazy, but hear me out.” He tried to laugh, but it fell flat. “See, the thing is, I have this camera and when I take pictures, the photos sometimes come out much differently than...” He hesitated. How could he explain this in a way that would make sense?

  Johnson cut in, “Get on with it.”

  Mark swallowed. “Sorry.” He wiped his hands on his thighs and darted a look at the other agents. “The photos—they show up in my dreams, only with more detail. And my dreams...they come true.” Johnson narrowed his eyes and Mark rushed on, “It’s the truth and because I see what happens before it happens, I can change it...sometimes.”

  He closed his eyes as the visions of the planes hitting the towers played in his mind. “Only, it didn’t work on September eleventh. There wasn’t enough time. That dream...well, I’ve had some bad ones before, but...” He shuddered and opened his eyes, but couldn’t get the images out of his head. He ground the heel of his hand against his brow as if he could erase them.

  “Stop!” Johnson slapped his hand down on the table top.

  Mark jumped, and then froze.

  “I don’t have time for this crap. We have tapes of your calls. We have records that you traveled to Afghanistan two years ago. We know that you asso
ciated with Mohommad Aziz, a suspected terrorist.”

  Mo? A terrorist? Mark didn’t buy it. He had known the guy for years. He was no more a terrorist than Fred Flintstone.

  Johnson took a sheet of paper out of the folder, grabbed pen from his shirt pocket and shoved them both across the table. “Please write down everything you did and the names of the people you met in Afghanistan.”

  Anger simmered inside of him and Mark tried to shove it down. He eased the paper back towards Johnson. “I already admitted I made the calls. You have the tapes.” Glancing at the two agents beside him, and then back to Johnson, he shrugged. “Yeah, I did go to Afghanistan. It was work related. Mo Aziz is a free-lance photojournalist I’ve known for about five years now.”

  Agent Johnson’s eyes narrowed. “Oh really? How interesting.” He jotted something on a note pad.

  “Listen, would ya? He’s no terrorist. He’s a good guy. He wanted to do a story on women’s rights, or lack of them, actually, in that country. Mo had some connections there, so we were able to go places where outsiders aren’t normally welcome. He interviewed the people and I took the photos. It was a hell of a book and I was proud to help with the photos.”

  Johnson nodded, his pen scratching across the paper. “Good. Where can I find a copy of this book? So we can verify your story.”

  Mark sighed. “Unfortunately, it was never published. Nobody was interested in the plight of the women of Afghanistan at the time.” He scratched the back of his neck. "Last I talked to Mo, he was still shopping it around.”

  “So, you have no proof that this book exists?”

  “I have my negatives,” Mark said. “You’re welcome to see them.” Should he have offered them? Maybe he should ask for a lawyer. His hope that this would all be quickly sorted out, faded.

  “Believe me, we will. In fact, a search warrant on your home has already been executed.” Head bent, the agent continued writing.

  “Oh.” Shit. He didn’t have anything to hide, but hated the idea of strangers going through his things.