Whatever the method of showing the future, it was clear the method worked. It had shown him a dead kid and that was exactly what he had seen the next day. Was it some kind of cruel punishment from…from whatever had imparted the magic into the camera? Magic! That was it. The camera was magic. If he couldn’t figure it out he would assume it was magic. He nodded, ignoring the dizziness the movement caused, and took another drink. Satisfied with the source of the power, he no longer cared how it came to be in the camera. It could have been God or aliens, or hell, it could have been a young boy wizard.
What had he done to piss off an alien? Why him? The camera was from Afghanistan and he had only tried to help the Afghan women. It didn’t seem fair. Shame flooded him, sloshing around in his veins with the blood and alcohol. Why not him? Here he was whining about fairness when he was just fine and dandy, all the while that sweet little girl was dead. No wonder he was being punished. All he would have had to do was keep an eye on her. He could have saved her if he had tried, but instead, he had walked past, even knowing that she resembled the girl in his picture. But he hadn’t really been looking for a live girl. He had been looking for a dead one, and eventually, he’d found her.
With a choked cry, he threw the half-full bottle against the column of brick that made up the opposite wall. Beer and glass exploded in the room. Sitting on the edge of the couch with his elbows braced on his knees, he covered his face.
Emotionally drained, he slumped back but didn’t reach for another beer. What if he had stayed near the child? Could he really have saved her? It didn’t seem possible. Even if the camera was magical and could photograph the future, how could that future be changed? Wouldn’t the act of changing it render the photograph impossible? Wasn’t that some kind of paradox or something? His brain was muddled with alcohol, but he was sure there was something about paradoxes in Back to the Future. Marty couldn’t interfere too much or it would alter the future in unpredictable ways. He shook his head in wry disgust that he was basing his camera’s magical properties on Hollywood science. What the hell, it made as much sense as anything else he could come up with.
What if he tested his hypothesis about the camera being magical? He could take some more pictures and see if any showed the future. He jumped off the couch, staggering just a little as he strode to the kitchen counter and grabbed the camera. He had some film in his camera bag and he loaded it. There was just enough light to get a few pictures if he hurried.
Flinging open a window, he took random photos of the street below. He didn’t care about composition or lighting, he just aimed and clicked on pedestrians crossing the street, a truck double-parked, a dog trotting down the street, and more until the roll was finished.
As he developed the film, it dawned on him that what he was doing could be considered borderline crazy and if he told anyone, they would laugh their asses off, and then call the men in the white coats. What sane person took photos with the expectation that some of them might be photos of the future?
For the most part, the resulting photos appeared to be exactly as he photographed them, except for one. He was sure he had taken a few pictures of a double-parked truck near the intersection, but instead of the truck, he had two images that he didn’t recall taking. He should have taken notes so he would know exactly what he had photographed, but it was too late now. He would have to rely on memory. The sedan was parked at the curb in one photo. A man was in the driver’s seat and from the angle of the wheels and the way he was looking at his side-view mirror, he appeared to be pulling away from the curb. In the second photo, the car was crushed in the intersection by a beer truck. There was no doubt he would have remembered taking a photograph of that if it had happened.
Mark studied the two photographs of the sedan, setting them on the kitchen counter as he rubbed the back of his neck and thought back to the photo with the child. Were there clues in it that he could have used to save her? Since he had taken the photo straight down, he couldn’t determine the angle of the sun. While it was evening now, did that correspond to when the accident would take place? Would it happen tomorrow, next week or fifteen minutes from now? The possibilities were endless and they churned through his mind like a locomotive with each boxcar representing another scenario.
He noted the white box truck behind the sedan. There was writing on the side; that in itself was a clue, as most were painted with the name of a business. Rummaging in his junk drawer, he found a small flip notepad and jotted down the white truck clue. Obviously the sedan itself was the biggest clue. He could watch for that car and when it showed up, warn the driver and—what was he thinking? He threw the pencil down in frustration. Nobody would believe him. He could hear himself now…’Uh, excuse me, but when you leave the curb, you’re going to get clocked in the intersection.’ Should he show the photo to the man? He played that over in his imagination and couldn’t see it ending well. The man would think he was a nut right out of the Twilight Zone. Which brought up another worry—even if for some bizarre reason the man did believe him, where did that leave the man? Would he ever be able to pull the car from the curb or would there always be a beer truck in its future? What if the sedan was towed? Would that action save the car and the driver or place the tow truck in jeopardy too? He fought the urge to toss the photos in the trash and instead, slammed a fist on the counter and stabbed both hands through his hair.
His head pounded with tension and he finally gave up running all the different scenarios over in his mind, took a couple of pain relievers and went to bed.
* * *
In the morning, he woke up, pulled on yesterday’s jeans, shoved his feet into his sneakers and grabbed a butcher knife out of his kitchen drawer. He knew he looked like a demented psychopath as he raced down the steps, but he had dreamed of the photo. The man was going into the bakery across the street. Mark had seen him in the dream. He came out with a white bag and a cup of coffee that he sipped before opening the car door. His attire had been business, but most importantly, Mark had felt like he had been in the car when the man had started it. He distinctly heard the deejay on the radio say the time. When he had awakened, it was only five minutes before that time.
His only hope was to disable the vehicle. Speaking to the impending victim was too unpredictable. The guy would in all likelihood ignore the warning. Mark knew he would if put in the man’s shoes. Just before he awoke, his dream self was getting a knife, and so he did the same. He could puncture the tires and prevent the car from being driven.
He burst through the door to the outside, and leaped down the five steps from the stoop. He stumbled a step before regaining his balance and dodged a passing car, ignoring the blast of its horn. With a glance left and right, Mark jabbed the knife several times into the front driver’s side wheel. No way the man would miss it, but for good measure, he did the same to the back wheel. He prayed the tires would go flat before the car left the curb. The accident happened only a few hundred feet up the road, so if the tires weren’t noticeably flat, the man might drive off anyway and still get demolished.
Chest heaving, Mark took a step back and listened to the hiss of air escaping the tires. The sound reassured him but before he had time to congratulate his ingenuity, the owner of the car exited the bakery.
“Hey! What are you doing?” The man’s steps quickened as he rounded the back of his car.
Mark bolted back across the street and circled to the back of his own building, and didn’t stop until he was on the next block over. As he passed a Dumpster, he tossed the knife inside and eased his head around the corner to the sidewalk. Head cocked, he listened for sirens—either from the man reporting him or from someone reporting an accident.
He walked another six blocks in the opposite direction, worried that any moment a cop car would pull alongside the curb and arrest him. Geez, he was acting like an escaped murderer. He needed to just chill and get a grip on his nerves. When no cop car approached, he finally felt safe in heading back. Ambling along with his
hands shoved in his pockets, he hoped he looked innocent, but he felt like he had the word ‘Vandal’ taped on front of his shirt like a name tag.
It had been about twenty minutes and when a tow truck passed him and stopped near where he thought the car had been parked, he let out a breath of relief. He hid in the alcove of an art supply store for a little while longer, allowing the tow truck time to haul the vehicle away.
When the coast was clear, he returned to his apartment and found the photographs on his kitchen counter still, only now they showed a double-parked truck—the very same one that had been in that spot last night.
With a whoop, he pumped his fist in the air. He had done it! He had changed the photo. His cheeks felt like they were going to split from the strain of his grin. Would the driver even know that Mark had saved his life? For a second, he felt a sense of loss. It would have been nice to have a little recognition, but in his dream, he had seen a car seat in the back of the car along with a few small toys. The man was a father—Mark was sure of it—and now he wouldn’t leave his child fatherless. That was worth it even if he was the only one who would ever know it.
* * *
After that first incredible save, Mark couldn’t resist using the camera every day. It was never a given that he would get a future photo, but that was half the draw. Some days, he developed the exact same photos that he had taken, but other days, a photo that didn’t belong would show up—sometimes more than one of the same incident. After studying the photos in the evening, he’d sleep, and the photos would come to life in his dreams. Day after day, he took the photos, and day after day, he made the saves. Like notches on a gun belt, he kept track, saving the photos of the ones he’d changed in a box under his bed. Someday maybe he’d tell someone about the camera, but for now, he kept it to himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to share the secret—he did. The desire to tell someone was always coiled inside of him, ready to spring out, but as badly as he wanted to tell someone, he didn’t dare. What if someone stole it? He couldn’t bear to lose it, but he was sure that if news got out, it would be a target for theft. Who wouldn’t want a camera that showed the future?
Another fear was, even if he gave in to the temptation to show someone else, what if it didn’t work when he tried to demonstrate the power? He would look like a fool. His greatest fear was that the government would get a hold of it. He knew what they would do. They would tear it apart to find out how it worked. It would be studied and tested and meanwhile, people who might have been saved would die while they ran their damn tests. Nope. Sharing the secret wasn’t an option. At least not at this time.
About nine months after the first save, Mark sat on the edge of his bed and studied the latest photograph. It showed a clerk at a gas station in the process of being robbed at gunpoint. In the next photo, the clerk was on the floor behind the counter in a puddle of blood. He had taken the pictures the day before and the corresponding dream was still fresh in his mind. Taking his notes with him, he moved into the kitchen and sat on the stool at the breakfast bar.
So far, most of his saves had involved accidents, not crimes. Could he prevent this? And if so, how? He didn’t own a gun and even if he did, he wasn’t about to get in a gunfight. He would probably do more damage than the criminal. No, he would have to notify the police about it. Somehow. His first challenge was nailing down the precinct where the robbery would take place. He pulled out the phone book and looked up the addresses, and picked out the precincts closest to the gas station. He stared at the numbers on the pad of paper, tapping the end of his pen against the pad. Now what? Just call them and report a robbery before it happened? They would either think he was involved or that he was a nutcase. The dream image of the murdered clerk popped into his mind’s eye. He would have to risk it. Better to be thought a nutcase than to carry the guilt of doing nothing and letting the woman die.
He called a precinct and tried to explain that he had overheard some man planning a robbery, but the person he spoke to transferred him to a detective. Just great. He had planned on delivering the tip to some random dispatcher.
“Detective Bishop speaking.”
“Uh, yeah—“, he broke off and cleared his throat. He hadn’t counted on speaking with a detective and wondered if he should just hang up and try to take care of it himself. His story was thin and wouldn’t hold up under close scrutiny.
“I uh, I want to report a conversation that I overheard this morning. A guy was planning to rob a gas station at Lake Street and North Green.”
“Really?” The skepticism crackled through the line and almost bit him in the ear.
He shook off the nerves and kept his voice firm. “Yes, really.”
“Where were you when you overhead the conversation?”
“I was…I was at a bar.”
“What bar?”
His mind went blank. “Just some bar over on…on Division.”
“What block on Division?”
Mark stifled a groan of frustration. “I don’t know. Just a place on West Division.”
She sighed. “You don’t sound too sure of yourself. Were you drinking at the time?”
“Sure, I’d had a beer, but I wasn’t drunk if that’s what you’re asking.” Denying drinking would be suspicious, so he felt clever admitting to a beer.
“Okay. Well, give me the details. Time? A description of the person?”
Relieved to have the answers to these questions, he rattled off information on the man in the picture, right down to the brand of shoes he was wearing.
“You noticed his shoes?”
“Well…yeah. Once I heard the plan, I tried to take note of as much as I could to pass along.” He took a sip of his coffee, his mouth suddenly dry.
“And this guy just stood there while you took notes?” She was smirking. He couldn’t see it but he could hear it. “Maybe you should have just taken a picture—it might have been less obvious.”
Mark inhaled the hot coffee and coughed uncontrollably while he held his hand over the receiver.
“Hello? Are you all right?”
“Yeah, sorry. Coffee went down the wrong pipe.” A lingering cough punctuated his reply.
“Okay, and your name?”
“What? My name? Why? I would prefer to give the tip anonymously.”
“I need it for the report. I could take it anonymously, but we don’t have time to run around checking out bogus reports and anonymous reports could come from a criminal looking for a diversion. ” Any concern that might have been in her voice had evaporated and replaced with suspicion. “Is that what you’re doing? Creating a diversion?”
“No, of course not.”
“You got something to hide?”
If only she knew. He took a deep breath. “Mark Taylor.” Resigned, he gave her his address and other details then said, “So you guys will stop it, right?”
“Listen, Mr. Taylor, if this information has a shred of truth to it, we’ll find out and stop the robbery, but if you’re yanking our chain, you are going to be in a world of hurt.”
“No…I’m not…I’m not yanking your chain.” He ran a hand through his hair then bit back a curse when his knee bumped against the bottom of the breakfast bar.
* * *
At the time of the robbery, Mark stood on the corner outside the gas station pretending to wait for a bus, but ready to do what he could if the police didn’t show. When the bus stopped, he waved it off, ignoring the bus driver’s irritated shake of his head.
Where were the cops? Any minute the robber would show up. Not five seconds later, a man matching the image in Mark’s photo stepped out of a car, looked around and entered the gas station.
Mark jogged across the gas station lot, but as he reached for the door, two cop cars barreled into the lot. He halted and backed away from the door. A dark sedan followed the marked cars and he was pretty sure it was the detective. He hoped that meant they had been watching. The way the police cars were parked, the robber wouldn’t be a
ble to get away. One officer pressed his shoulder microphone as he read the numbers off the license plate aloud, and Mark glanced through the window, catching a glimpse of the robber. So far, he was only standing in the back, holding a cooler open, a soft drink in hand, but his attention was on the police cars outside. His gaze swung towards Mark, so Mark ducked out of the way, deciding that the police had things under control and didn’t need him getting in the way. He retreated to the other side of the street where he could watch without attracting notice.
It seemed to take forever, but the police finally exited with the guy in handcuffs. Puzzled, Mark wondered what had happened to produce that result. He was sure no shots had been fired. Still, his plan had worked. Maybe he hadn’t done it himself, but the end result was all that mattered. He took a deep breath and blew it out in relief. The robbery had been averted.
The next day, he was at his desk preparing to send out contact sheets to some clients, when the phone rang.
“Mark Taylor Photography.” He sealed the envelope in his hand and tossed it on the desk, then reached for another client’s contact sheet.
“Hello. This is Detective Bishop. We spoke yesterday.”
He stilled with his hand poised over the contact sheet, his task forgotten for the moment. After observing the arrest, he had been confident that everything had come out okay. What if he had been wrong and the clerk had been murdered anyway? “I…uh…I hope my information helped.”
“That’s the thing. It did help, but it also means I’d like to ask you a few questions regarding how you acquired the information.”
Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series) Page 6