March Into Hell mt-2 Page 3

  Once Mark and the girl were out of the makeshift room, it was harder going in the dark. Mark tried to watch for pursuers while also attempting to guide the woman back towards the front entrance. They shuffled and stumbled their way out of the building. Mark dropped the staff and pulled the woman over to a nearby Dumpster for cover.

  He tried to control his trembling hands as he fumbled with the rope around her wrists and finally remembered the little pocketknife he always carried. Digging it out, he sliced through the binding and looked over his shoulder when he heard shouting coming from the building. When he turned back, the woman was in the process of removing the gag. "Okay, let's go!" He grabbed her hand and pulled her behind him as he raced for the street and relative safety. It wasn't until the woman stumbled and Mark turned to see if she was okay that he realized she was still naked and trying to run barefoot over the pavement.

  Mark shrugged out of his jacket. "Here!" He helped her into it, and then scooped her up in a cradle hold. "Hang on tight."

  ***

  Mark trudged what seemed like miles, but was probably less than a half-dozen blocks, looking over his shoulder every time he heard a noise. Nobody followed, which was a relief, but Mark realized he was still in a bad neighborhood and there was nowhere he could call for help. He sagged against an iron gate protecting the front of a pawnshop and hiked the girl up higher. His arms ached, and she was now dead weight, having passed out at some point. A shiver shook his body, the cold, damp air chilling him now that he was no longer moving. Looking around, he got his bearings and was pretty sure that County hospital was only a block or so away. With a grunt, he pushed away from the wall. The girl was slight, but by the time Mark reached the hospital, his arms were shaking with the effort of carrying her.

  "I…I need some help…please?" Mark gasped out his plea as he staggered through the automatic doors. "She was attacked…they had a…a pole. Kept jabbing her."

  "Grab a cart!" Two nurses rushed up and relieved Mark of his burden and eased her onto the gurney. He stumbled at the sudden removal of weight and caught himself on a wall, his breathing ragged.

  Hands on his knees, he bent over in an attempt to catch his breath.

  "Sir?"

  A hand gripped Mark's bicep, and he looked up to find a woman in blue scrubs regarding him with concern.

  "Why don't you come with me and we can get you taken care of too." She tugged gently on his arm.

  Straightening, Mark shook his head, trying not to wince. "Oh no, I'm okay…just out of breath. I must have carried her a half-mile. I'll be fine once I rest a minute."

  "But your head is bleeding and you're dripping blood on the floor." Her voice held a note of amusement.

  Mark glanced down and saw several bright red drops dotting the white tile. "Sorry about that. I cut my hand, but I just need a Band-Aid."

  "Yeah, well, let's take a look and let the doctor decide, okay?"

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Mark?"

  He groaned and opened his eyes, squinting up at the bright overhead light. Mark knew that voice. Jessie. The very last person he wanted to see at this moment. Sitting up slowly, he swung his legs over the side of the hospital gurney and reached for his shirt. The hospital gown he'd worn earlier had been removed after the doc had sutured Mark's head. Between the blood and the saline, it had been soaked. Unable to grasp the shirt with his still-numb fingers, it fell to the floor just as the curtain around his cubicle fluttered. A hand appeared from the other side and grabbed the material, yanking it back. The metal balls in the overhead track screeched in protest.

  "I knew I shouldn't have told you anything!" She stood at the foot of the gurney with her hands on her hips and looking much fiercer than her slender frame had a right to appear.

  Her eyes narrowed as she glowered at him.

  "You know what I do, Jess. Don't think just because you're not part of it that I've stopped using the camera." Mark bent to retrieve his shirt, but a wave of dizziness swept through him and he almost fell off the gurney. Embarrassed, he eased back and tried to blink the room into focus again. The doctor advised Mark that he had a concussion, and he should take it easy for a week or so. It had been hard for him not to laugh out loud at that recommendation.

  With a cluck of her tongue, Jessie bent and snatched the shirt, thrusting it at him. "Here."

  "Thanks." Mark fumbled with it, finding it difficult to handle the piece of clothing with his left hand bandaged and numb. Giving up, he clutched it against his belly. "What are you doing here?"

  "I received a phone call from the patrol officer who took your statement. You see, Mark, what you reported is out of the ordinary realm of usual criminal activity. So, being one of the detectives whose job is to investigate cult activity in Chicago, naturally, it was assumed that I would want to be informed of this event." Arms crossed, she glared at him. "Why do you have to keep using that camera?"

  Ignoring the pounding in his head, Mark straightened. "Listen, I'm sorry they called you, but if I hadn't used 'that camera', a girl was going to end up dead. I didn't cause that scenario, Jess. I just did what I had to do."

  Her stare wavered and her eyes flicked down before her gaze darted around the room. Maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him, and he wouldn't doubt it with the concussion, but he could swear that she was blushing! "Is something wrong?" He glanced down, wondering if perhaps his fly was undone. Nope, all was in order.

  Jessie ignored his question and shot one of her own at him. "Do you realize you could have been a second victim?"

  Mark looked away, remaining silent.

  She sighed, the sound loud in the cubicle. "Fine. I'll just go talk to the girl." Jessie began to exit, but turned back, jabbing a finger in his direction. "Don't leave until I return."

  Mark grunted in response and swung his legs back up onto the cart and lay down. Closing his eyes, he tried to blot out the memory of the scene he had witnessed at the warehouse. Something about it affected him in his very core. It was as if pure evil had enveloped him; swallowed him into its darkness and clung to him like a shroud. He wanted nothing more than to go home and shower. Unfortunately, he'd been instructed to keep his stitches dry.

  He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, Jessie stood beside the cart, shaking his shoulder and he awakened with a start. "Huh? What?"

  "Rise and shine, Mark. It's almost time to go. The nurse was here a second ago and said she'd be back in a minute to release you." Her face loomed over him, her expression almost pleasant. "I got your jacket back from the girl. They're going to keep her overnight."

  Mark rubbed his hand down his face. "Thanks. How is she?" He pulled his shirt on, having less difficulty now that the local anesthetic had worn off on his hand. It throbbed in rhythm with his heart and head.

  "She's pretty shaken up, but other than some bruises, she's okay. They're keeping her because she's dehydrated," Jessie said, shaking her head in disgust. "They had her there for a couple of days preparing for their 'ceremony'."

  Mark shuddered, trying to imagine being stuck in that place for a day with those crazy people. Just the thought of it gave him the willies. It suddenly occurred to him that he didn't even know her name. "Uh, did you happen to get her name?"

  "Of course. I am a cop, after all. It's Judy." She pulled out a small notepad. "Judy Medea. She's a college student that somehow got mixed up with this group."

  The nurse entered before Mark could ask any more questions. He wondered if Judy's family had been called and how she would get home. Tomorrow, he'd call and find out how she was doing and see if she needed anything. He sat up, dangling his legs off the side of the gurney and tried to listen as the nurse droned on about signs of infection, complications and to follow up in a week with his personal physician. After taking one last set of vitals, she gave him a sheet of instructions and released him.

  Jessie followed him out to the waiting room, and he remembered her admonishment not to leave before she came back. He figured now w
as the time she intended to interrogate him. Before she could corner him, he sought a means of escape. Off to the left of the waiting room was a pay phone, and Mark veered towards it as quickly as his battered body allowed. He dug into his pocket and swore when he came up with a ten-dollar bill and no change. Maybe the desk clerk would let him use their phone to call for a cab. He didn't really feel like taking the 'L' home. Before Jessie could catch up to him, he approached the registration desk. "Excuse me? Ma'am?"

  The woman looked up from her computer. "Yes?"

  Mark held up his arm, showing the ID bracelet still encircling his wrist. "I was just released and wondered if I could use the phone to call a cab. I don't have any change on me."

  "Sure, as long as it's local. Just dial nine first." The clerk turned the phone so he could see the numbers. She pointed to a faded piece of paper taped to the wall on Mark's right. "There's some numbers up there, if you need them."

  "Thanks so much." Mark picked up the phone and squinted at the list. The numbers wavered, and he rubbed his eyes in an attempt to clear his vision. Jessie, after detouring around a mom and three children, stopped beside him.

  "Who are you calling?" Jessie craned her neck to see what Mark was looking at, her eyebrows knit in confusion.

  Mark glanced at Jessie and pointed at the phone numbers. "I'm calling a cab."

  "What for?"

  "What for? So I can go home." He began punching the buttons, realized he'd made a mistake and hung up to try again.

  Jessie reached over and took the phone out of his hands and set it in the cradle. "I can give you a lift home. I figured you knew that."

  "That's okay. I can just take a cab." The prospect of being peppered with questions on the ride home didn't appeal to him in the least.

  "Listen, you just got released from the hospital with a concussion. You can barely see straight. I can't let you take a cab home." She gently took his arm and as though she could read his mind, she added, "Come on. I promise not to grill you."

  Too tired to argue, Mark let her lead him out to her vehicle.

  True to her word, Jessie remained fairly quiet on the ride home, just asking him about his injuries. "So, what's the tally?"

  Mark fingered the lump topped with stitches behind his right ear. "Six in my head and four in my hand. The hand…that was just 'cause I caught it on a nail." He smoothed down a piece of tape over the bandage circling his palm. The cut wasn't that long, just wide and deep.

  "Sure. It could happen to anyone." Jessie's dry tone as she pulled in front of the studio didn't pass unnoticed by Mark.

  "What should I have done, Jessie? Just left her there?" He couldn't help the anger stamped onto his voice. He was so tired of the questioning and not just tonight's drilling, but every time something happened. He ground the heel of his hand against his forehead. Why was it that when he did something good, it practically required an act of God for anyone to trust in him?

  "You could have called the cops!" She threw the car into park turned sideways in her seat and in the dim light, he could see the burn of anger in her eyes, but then her expression softened. "Do you have a death wish or something?"

  Mark stared out the windshield, trying to recall exactly what had happened. Everything had transpired so fast, some of it was fuzzy in his mind. "No, I don't have a…a…I…I was going to call the cops. I swear it. You know, there were at least a dozen of them, and I knew I couldn't do anything on my own. I turned around to leave and that guy…the leader was there."

  The recollection of the man's cold, almost inhuman eyes, elicited an involuntary shudder. Mark turned to find Jessie watching him, a thoughtful look on her face. "What?"

  "You okay?"

  "Yeah. It's just that guy…he…gave me the creeps."

  She nodded. "The officer's initial report has your description of what the leader looked like. Is there anything else you can tell me about him?"

  "Um, nothing specific. The look in his eyes was…I don't know…cold and…and lifeless." Mark shook his head in frustration, knowing that the description wasn't very helpful. "And his voice was deep…like-never mind."

  Jessie cocked her head. "Deep like…like what? You were going to say something."

  "It's stupid; forget it."

  "If it helps us catch the guy, it's not stupid."

  Mark rolled his eyes, feeling ridiculous, but he finished his thought, "He…he sounded like Darth Vader." He grimaced and ducked his head at the snort of laughter from Jessie. "See, I told you it was stupid."

  "I'm sorry, it's not stupid. I'm just picturing putting out an APB on Darth Vader." She grinned, and Mark couldn't help wondering when the smiles had stopped. Why hadn't he noticed? He'd give anything to make her grin like that more often. Especially if she directed it at him.

  "Yeah, I guess that is kind of funny." Before he could suppress it, Mark let out a huge yawn. "Sorry." He rubbed the back of his neck and tilted his head to work out a kink.

  She took the cue and turned to face the front of the car. "Go on. Get some rest and try not to think about it too much. The girl's okay and you're okay…for the most part, so everything came out all right." Jessie cleared her throat. "Well, take it easy, Mark. I'll probably have some more questions for you in the next few days."

  "Sure. And, thanks for the ride, Jessie." His body aching, he pulled himself out of the car and trudged up to his loft.

  ***

  "Adrian Kern."

  Dan looked up from the report he was perusing. "What?"

  "I have a possible name on that guy in the Medea case." Jessie circled the desk and showed Dan the file she had found buried in a drawer devoted to unsolved crimes. "A few years ago, a woman reported escaping from a group who had posed as a prayer group initially. After attending several sessions, she was pressured to sign over her bank account to the group. She was told it was something they all did and that pooling their resources was good for everyone. Besides, they said she wouldn't need it any more because all of her bills would be taken care of. Apparently a group of them rented a big old house in Oak Park."

  Dan sat back and raised an eyebrow. "And she believed them?"

  Jessie shrugged. "I guess so. Anyway, after a few months, she balked and closed the account and left the group's home. One day as she was walking home, she was approached by members who were in a car and they lured her into coming with them. They told the woman that the group was dissolving and that she was owed a share from the group's savings."

  "And she jumped at the chance to get her money back."

  Jessie nodded. "You bet. But, of course, that didn't happen. Instead, she was taken to a warehouse and beaten while the group chanted around her." Arching one eyebrow, Jessie looked at Dan. "Sound familiar?"

  "Yeah, but what happened?"

  "A passing squad is what happened. The officer on patrol noticed something out of the ordinary and interrupted the 'ceremony'. Unfortunately, there must have been a lookout, because the leader of the group and several of his followers escaped before back-up could arrive. The ones left were just low-level members who didn't really have much info. Just knew the leader as Adrian Kern."

  "Okay, well let's go question this woman." Dan stood, stretching as he did so.

  "Sure, let me just check for a current address first." Jessie sat and pulled her chair close to her desk and tapped the woman's name into the computer. Squinting at the small print, Jessie felt her heart sink. "Oh, damn."

  Dan came around to stand behind Jessie. "What's wrong?"

  Jessie pointed to the screen. "She was killed in a hit and run accident a month after this report was filed. Nobody was ever caught."

  "What about Kern?"

  Jessie typed the name into the database. While waiting for the computer to search, she drummed her fingers on the desk impatiently. In a few seconds she was staring into Adrian Kern's eyes. She shuddered as she remembered reading Mark's statement describing the leader's eyes as cold. And looking at the eyes in the photo, she knew instantly t
hat this was the same guy that Mark had encountered. Averting her gaze from the man's picture, she read his history.

  "Huh. It looks like Mark sure picked a winner to get messed up with," Dan commented dryly.

  "Possession of drugs with intent to deliver, battery, extortion…" Jessie sighed. "You aren't kidding."

  "But look, in every case, witnesses failed to show, resulting in a mis-trial, or the jury is dead-locked. In all the instances, the DA then reduced the charges to avoid another trial." Dan pointed to the outcomes of the charges. "What's his last known address?"

  Jessie entered the request and then blew out a sigh of frustration. "Unknown. Figures."

  "What about-" Dan began but was interrupted by the arrival of one of their fellow detectives. "Hey, Schmidt, what are you looking all excited about?"

  The tall blond detective grinned as he waved a newspaper. "You guys aren't going to believe this! Look what the Chicago Tribune investigator wrote in her column today." He slapped the paper down in front of Jessie.

  "Can't you see we're kind of busy here?" Jessie started to shove the newspaper back at the young man when a small picture of Mark Taylor on the upper corner of the front page caught her eye. Beneath the picture was a caption, "Fake, Flake or For Real?"

  Puzzled, Jessie glanced at Dan, who looked as confused as she did. She turned back to Schmidt. "What's this about?"

  "Well, the condensed version is this: The reporter, Denise Jeffries, claims your guy, Taylor, has some kind of divine powers." Schmidt rocked back on his heels, a grin on his face. "How funny is that?"

  "Divine powers? What does that mean?" Jessie began flipping through the pages to find the article. Dan leaned over her shoulder to read it too. She began reading; dread building in her as Mark's past dealings with the police were summarized. It emphasized that each time, he had been cleared in each case. It detailed the year spent as an enemy combatant and how Mark's prediction of 9/11 had never been explained, but that Mark had been released just as suddenly as he'd been arrested. The reporter wondered if the government knew something about Mark Taylor that they were covering up.