Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series) Page 26

  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 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 were 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.

  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.”

  “Yes, I guess so...or if we look at it another way, it could be seen as the subject simply has no information.” Jim gathered up the photos and returned them to the files.

  “It could be seen that way.” Bill folded his hands on the table and turned his head, his expression serious. “Is that how you’re seeing the situation?”

  Jim lifted the folders and tapped them against the tabletop to align the contents. “I think I do.” The moment he said it aloud, a weight seemed to lift from his shoulders.

  “So, at the next meeting with the council, you’ll state that you think Taylor is innocent?”

  “I’ll state the truth, that after close to a year of intense questioning, no team has gathered any actionable intelligence. In light of that, and my opinion that Taylor is no threat to this country, that I recommend his release as soon as it can be arranged.”

  Bill sighed. “I can’t argue with that. I guess I’ll go along with you.” He ran a hand over his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “You realize that the next meeting isn’t scheduled until after the holidays, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I’ll send some memos urging an emergency meeting.” It felt wrong that Taylor would remain in custody due to something as simple as the schedule of a meeting. “I’m not sure it’ll make a difference though. They might not even take our recommendations.” He stood and pushed in his chair.

  “Then why did they have us do the questioning? It wouldn’t look good to ignore us. You think the other agencies will go along with it? What about law enforcement?” Bill rose and walked alongside Jim as they exited the room.

  “I believe they will. If they have info that they’re withholding, they’ll have to show it, or give a damn good reason to keep Taylor in custody.” Jim strode down the hall, hoping like hell he wouldn’t ever have to return to that room.

  They reached Bill’s office first, and Jim leaned against the door frame after Bill entered. “We have to make this happen ASAP, Bill.” Jim tapped the files against his thigh. “I don’t know how long Taylor will hang on. He’s spiraling down.”

  Bill plopped onto his chair. “Yeah, I noticed.” He leaned back. “In the meantime, we can try and lighten things up a little.”

  “Will the protocol allow that? We’re supposed to follow the same guidelines as the other place.”

  “Screw the protocol.” Bill grimaced.

  Jim smiled. “See what you can do in that regard. I’ll get on the horn and start making calls, see if I can expedite the matter.”

  * * *

  In the weeks since he and Bill had made their suggestion for an emergency meeting, nothing had happened. Someone always had a reason they couldn’t attend. The fact that a man languished behind bars didn’t seem to add any urgency in the other council members’ minds.

  Bill’s attempts to lighten things had only gone as far as halting further interrogations. The security at the prison had enforced their own measures after Taylor’s outburst of throwing food around his cell. Now, he was confined to his cell at all times, except for showers.

  Jim opened Taylor’s file to add another email to the list he’d begun after the decision to make their recommendation to free Taylor. He hadn’t realized what a tricky and protracted task it would be to convince the people with authority that Taylor was not a security threat to the United States. If nothing else, Taylor should get an official hearing. The fact that one hadn’t taken place yet rankled Jim. It wasn’t the American way.

  Two hours later, he printed out his advisement that in light of no new information, and the questionable sources for the Afghanistan claim, it was his opinion there was no merit for keeping Taylor in detention. Bill had completed his own recommendations that he held doubt about the man’s guilt.

  He stretched, grimacing at a twinge of stiffness in his back. He’d been sitting so long, his back creaked when he stood and crossed to the window. Would the powers that be follow their recommendations? If they did, how long would it take? The wheels of government spun at a snail’s pace, but maybe since there had never been formal charges, it wouldn’t take much longer to straighten the mess out and free Taylor.

  * * *

  Mark stopped mid push-up when the slot on his door opened. It was too soon for the next meal. The command to present his hands and feet for shackles came over the speaker.

  Since his outburst a few months ago, his outdoor excursions had been curtailed. Since he had showered yesterday, that could mean only one thing. Interrogation.

  He pushed back to a kneeling position, unable to force himself to stand right away. Since the last interrogation, his thoughts had touched on finding a way to end it all. In his whole life, he had never felt that way, but there was no end in sight here. He didn’t want to die, but he didn’t want to live like this.

  So far, whenever the despair hit and his mind flashed to suicide, he had been able to shove the thought out of his head. If he underwent another brutal questioning, he wasn’t sure he would be strong enough to quell those demons.

  The command came over the speaker a second time and Mark stood, swiping his head on his shoulder as sweat dripped. His feet felt encased in cement as he approached the door.

  He tried not to react when in addition to the usual shackles, they used the blackout goggles and the earphones. Did that mean he was going somewhere besides the interrogation room? Swallowing hard, he couldn’t help balking at the application of the goggles.

  Interrogation was bad, but at least he knew what to expect. What if they had something worse in store? Mark couldn’t imagine anything worse, but he was sure that they could.

  Lost in a vacuum of sensory deprivation, Mark stumbled along, sitting when pushed down, standing when pulled up and walking when tugged forward. He felt vibrations under his feet, and knew he was in a vehicle, but time blurred and he had no way to judge the distance he’d been driven.

  After leaving the car, he was walked another distance before they stopped him and hands worked at the goggles and earphones, removing them. Mark blinked in the bright lights and squinted at his surroundings. A locker room? What the hell was he doing here? The guards removed his shackles and instructed him to strip. Mark hesitated as fear
boiled within him. An image of the Nazi death camps and the gas chambers shot through his mind and he shook it off. That was crazy. He removed his clothes, hoping that his shaking wasn’t apparent. One guard pointed behind Mark. “Okay, let’s go. There’s a shower back there. Supposed to be everything you need to get cleaned up.”

  A shower? They did all this for him to take a shower? Confused, Mark followed the guard, alert for any tricks. Not that he could do anything to protect himself even if there were.

  To his amazement, there was a shower stall. Several in fact, but the one they directed him to had a bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap—brand new—sitting on a metal shelf. He needed no further prodding.

  The soap smelled clean and fresh, not the antiseptic smelling stuff he normally had to use. He raised the bar to his nose, closing his eyes as he breathed deeply. Images of sand and surf and lazy summer days lying on the beach swirled through his mind. The scent filled the stall as the hot water beat on his back. He wanted to stay in that stall and never come out. In here, he could push aside the worry of what was coming next. He could stay in the present. Forever.

  When he finished, he was given a razor and shaving cream, and the guards didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get the blade back. They led him to a locker that held a clean set of clothes, and told him to get dressed. Mark clasped the white button-down shirt, looking from it to a pair of dark dress pants. Where was the orange prison suit? He squashed his fears and decided to just enjoy each little luxury instead of ruining it with worry. If they were getting ready to take him to the gas chamber, at least he would be wearing real clothes and he’d be clean.

  Sitting on the bench, he pulled on black socks and shoes. The shoes were the biggest surprise. He hadn’t worn any for so long, and he wiggled his toes as he admired the shiny leather. They felt good. Real good. Standing, he looked down at himself and took a deep shaky breath. He felt human for the first time in over a year.