Eventually, his eyes became heavy and he drifted off, only to jerk awake every time as if his mind was fending off the dreaded dreams. After the third time, he sat on the edge of the bed, scrubbing his hands down his face and yawning. Through eyes gritty with fatigue, he noted the time, 2:11 a.m. He groaned. Half the night was gone and he hadn’t dreamed at all yet. What if the dreams didn’t come? Mark had a sneaking suspicion that he wouldn’t be absolved of guilt if he didn’t have a dream depicting the events. The photos showed the airlines at least. If he went dreamless the rest of the night, he would have those clues to pass along. The security office at the World Trade Center could be notified, and the same with the Pentagon. At least some people might be saved if he could convince someone to believe him. He padded into the kitchen and drank a glass of water. He prayed that just getting up and moving around would could alter the pattern of suddenly pulling out of the clutches of sleep just as it was getting him in its grasp.
The photos were still on the kitchen counter, and reluctantly, he spread them out for one more look as he sipped the water. Afterward, he went back to bed, and this time when sleep caught him, he didn’t escape.
* * *
“Come on…come on!” Mark glanced at his watch and paced between the breakfast bar and the sofa. It was seven-thirty already—less than twenty minutes until the first plane would hit. The first planes to crash were probably already in the air or on the runway ready to take off and here he was on hold still on both his landline and his cellphone.
He had been awake for hours already, calling all the numbers on his list, and with the knowledge from the dream, adding a few more, including the New York Fire Department. So far, nobody had taken him seriously. They had asked for his name and number, but then said they were transferring him to someone else. Usually by the third transfer, the call was disconnected. If it wasn’t disconnected, he was left on hold so long he finally had to hang up so he could move onto the next number.
The cell was currently on hold for Logan Airport. It was his second attempt with them. The first call had been routed to Lost and Found. He guessed they heard him ask for security and just assumed he was complaining about lost luggage. His intention was to stop the flight from taking off, but as the minutes ticked by, he felt the opportunity to keep the plane safely on the ground slipping away.
On the landline, he waited for the FBI to come back to the line. At least they seemed to listen to his story before telling him to hold for some agent. What the hell was taking everyone so long?
The music stopped playing on the Logan call. Finally.
“Yes, I explained to the last guy that you have to stop American Airlines Flight 11 from taking off if it hasn’t already. No, this isn’t a joke. Listen, there are hijackers on it and they’re going to…no, I’m not on the plane, but—wait, please listen…don’t put me on hold again. Hello?”
Mark pulled the cellphone away from his ear and looked at the screen, uncertain if they had disconnected him or put him on hold. The screen was still lit and showing the number so he was on hold. There was no music this time.
The FBI line still crackled with various clicks. Did that mean his call was being transferred around to different people?
At 7:35, Logan came back on the line. Someone from the FAA. Mark swallowed hard and answered his question to the best of his ability, “I know you have a situation. I…I dreamed about it. I dreamed about the plane being hijacked. You have to warn the people in the World Tra— Damn it! Don’t transfer me again!” Shit!
The FAA guy had abruptly given the phone to someone else who asked Mark basic questions like his name and address. When they got it all, he was shoved back into on hold hell.
He hadn’t even had a chance to warn anyone. Someone finally came on the line for the FBI.
“Please, you have to put me through to someone in charge. There’s not much time left. Oh, God. Please.”
“I’m sorry sir; I need to ask a few questions first.”
“Goddamn it, there’s no time for questions...time...oh, shit...what time is it?” Mark zeroed in on the clock on the VCR. 7:44. No! No! No! The phone slipped from his fingers as the implication of all those deaths sunk in. It was too late. He had failed. There was no way anyone could stop this now. A voice came from the phone on the floor, and numb with despair, Mark bent to retrieve the phone and put it to his ear. His throat worked, but no words emerged. He tried again, managing to choke out, “Never mind. It’s too late.”
He clicked the cellphone off. There was no point in trying to warn them again. It crossed his mind to try to stop the other planes from crashing, but it was as though his mind had turned to sludge and the thought took forever to transfer into action. Blinking to clear the fog, he ran a finger down the list of numbers. He had called them all at least once.
Defeat and failure crashed over him and he sank onto the sofa, staring at the muted TV. Any minute now, the rest of the world would know what he had known for a little over twelve hours now. Good Morning America was on but the hosts were still blissfully unaware. Charlie Gibson and Diane Sawyer chatted on the sofa before going to a break.
Even if his call to the FBI had gone differently, he doubted that there would have been time. Maybe fighter jets could be scrambled if some were in the area, but even if they were able to intercept the planes, what could they do? Shoot them out of the sky? On Mark’s say so? A bitter chuckle slipped out. He shook his head at the absurdity. He didn’t even know if there were any bases near New York and it hadn’t occurred to him to do an internet search for one. Chalk it up as another strike in the failure column.
A commercial for the Batman movie came on and he knew that soon, the news anchors would know. In his dream, every television he saw broadcast the story live as it happened. He didn’t know if he could watch it…again, but he made no move to turn the television off. Maybe somehow these photos and his dream were wrong.
The commercial cut off abruptly. He wasn’t sure if it was supposed to end that way, but a second later, he forgot all about it as Good Morning America returned from the break. Charlie and Diane were still on the sofa, but it was obvious something had happened, for their faces were now serious and seconds later, the screen cut to a live feed of the World Trade Center. Clouds of dark smoke stained a clear blue sky.
Mark’s throat tightened and he tried to swallow the sensation of strangling. The constriction descended into his chest, squeezing his lungs. His blood pounded through his body and he felt it throbbing in his neck before it raced through his temples. It pulsed through him as if seeking to escape a fist that clutched his heart.
As the hosts of the talk show tried to sort out what had happened, the second airliner slammed into building two. Even though Mark had known it was coming, he flinched in shock when it happened live on television.
Lacing his fingers behind his neck, he leaned forward, sucking gulps of air. Shit! He had failed. Completely and utterly failed.
After the little girl had drowned, he had thought he could never feel worse. He had been wrong.
Mark prayed that somewhere, someone had listened to his warnings and had evacuated the buildings, and it was that thin strand of hope that kept him glued to the news coverage. When Tower Two fell, he grabbed the camera from the coffee table and stood, cocking his arm as he faced the brick wall opposite him. What cruel reason did the camera or whatever controlled the future photos have for showing him something this horrific?
A sob caught in his throat and his arm wavered as his knees buckled under the weight of his grief. What was the purpose of igniting the dreams, if he was helpless to stop what they revealed? The urge to smash the camera against the bricks surged through him, renewing his strength, but the faces of those he had saved in the last few years stilled his hand. How many people in the future would be sentenced to a certain death because he couldn’t save them?
With an anguished groan, he lowered the camera. Damn it! He couldn’t do it. Instead, he strode to his bedroom c
loset, tossed the device on the top shelf and slammed the door. Turning, he rested against the door, slid down until he was sitting on the floor, and buried his head in his arms.
Mark ignored the phone the first four times it rang, but on the fifth call, he swore and stumbled to his feet, his leg stiff. He picked up his phone too late to answer it, but he went through the missed calls. Three were from Jessie, one from his parents—probably his mom, and one from a number he didn’t recognize. Jessie and his mother had left messages on his voicemail but the unknown caller had not.
He moved to the sofa, still clutching the phone, intending to return the calls from Jessie and his mother, but he couldn’t. Not now. Maybe later when the pain wasn’t so fresh. Mark knew his guilt wasn’t rational, that the terrorists were the guilty ones, but he should have been able to stop it. Another wave of anger washed over him, and he turned and whipped the phone against the bricks.
* * *
The camera remained on his closet shelf, the lens glaring at him every morning when he pulled a shirt off a hanger. It sat silent and accusing, a constant reminder of the terrorist attacks—and yet every day it sat unused, was a day that someone might die. Someone he could and should have saved. He couldn't win.
At night, instead of the focused dreams connected to a photo, he was plagued by nightmares filled with ghoulish faces of dead people. Mornings, he awoke in a cold sweat, the echo of terror-filled screams still resonating in his head. There had been no logic to the nightmares, no way of fixing them.
Remorse finally drove him to pull the camera from the closet. He had seen a story on the news about someone who had died after falling from a back porch. Would that accident have shown up in a photo? It would have been an easy save, but fear that the camera would show him another tragedy he couldn’t prevent seized him whenever he thought about using it.
His fear was so great, it took weeks before he could hold the camera, and it was weeks after that before he could actually take photos. If only he could find the courage to develop them. The nights after using the camera, his dreams turned to nightmares and the next day, he avoided watching the news. He was sure that whatever happened in his nightmares would end up being a true story.
It wasn’t until November that Mark developed his first film since September 10th. It showed a man getting shoved through a plate glass window and bleeding to death. The corresponding dream gave him the time, location and details on who had shoved the man. It would occur only a mile from the studio, so he walked the mile. It had begun as a minor argument that escalated. It was an easy save. Mark simply distracted the men from their argument by playing a lost tourist and butting into the argument to ask directions. They still appeared angry, so he inquired about a good restaurant, and before he left them, the men had forgotten the argument and were talking about where they would go for dinner.
It was a small victory. Mark shivered and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, ducking his head against a blast of wind. He kicked a stone, enjoying the way it clattered and bounced on the pavement. When he caught up to it, he sent it ricocheting down the sidewalk again and smiled. He was in the mood to celebrate. Maybe he’d give Jessie a call and see if she wanted to go out.
Leaves whirled and spun down the sidewalk as he drew a deep breath of the frosty air feeling cleansed of his fear. He had to accept that September 11th had been too big for him to prevent. Twelve hours hadn’t been enough time and he hadn’t been prepared for something of that magnitude. He prayed to God that nothing like September 11th ever happened again, but if something did, he hoped that he could redeem himself by preventing it.
* * *
The End
No Good Deed: Book One
Book One in the Mark Taylor Series
M.P. McDonald
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
Copyright 2010 by M.P. McDonald
Special thanks to Dianna Morris and Jessica Tate for their help and encouragement.
Dedicated to my husband Robert, and my three children, Brian, Tim and Maggie.
Created with Vellum
One
The baby floated face down in the tub. The image hadn’t changed, not that Mark Taylor expected it to—not yet anyway. He tucked the photo in his back pocket and trotted down the steps from the ‘L’ platform. With any luck at all, the next time he looked, the baby would be fine. He skirted around an old lady tottering in his path and glanced at his watch.
All he had to do was find the apartment, convince the mom that he wasn’t a nut case, or worse—a peeping tom—just because he knew that her phone would ring and distract her from bathing her daughter. Yep. Nothing complicated. Just get in, alert the mom, and get out. Five minutes. Tops. Mark jogged, cursing under his breath at the rush of people heading towards the train station. The crowd thinned, and he broke into a sprint, his breath exploding out in a cloud of white.
Cars blocked the crosswalk, trapped there when the light turned red. Shit. He paced left, then right, willing the light to change. To hell with it. He darted into the street, ignoring the blasting horns. It wasn’t like the cars could advance anyway. He stumbled when one bumped his thigh, or he bumped it. He wasn’t sure which and didn’t have time to find out. Limping, he raced on.
Mid-block, he slowed to read the address numbers set above the entrance of an apartment building. This was the one. He pivoted and took the short flight of concrete steps two at a time and tugged at the door. Locked. Of course.
Bracing his hands on the door, he panted. Think. There had to be a way in. He wouldn’t fail. Not this time.
He swiped his hand down a panel of numbered call buttons, not caring who answered as long as someone let him in. “Come on…come on.”
“Who is it?”
“Hey buddy, I forgot my key.” It was the first thing that came to him and it didn’t work. The next lie didn’t either. Unable to think up a plausible story, he resorted to the truth on the fourth response. “It’s an emergency! Life or death.”
Maybe his voice sounded as desperate as he felt, or maybe the person didn’t give a damn—whatever the reason, the guy let him in. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. It was the second floor. He was sure of that. The dream played in his head like a movie, showing him the silver number twenty-two nailed to the door.
There was an elevator, but it was on the fifth floor. He spotted the stairs and flew up them, grabbing the railing to make the tight turn up to the second flight. It occurred to him that the door to the hallway might be locked, but luck was on his side this time, and it opened. Bent in a runner’s stance, hands on knees, he huffed and glanced at the number on the door nearest him. Twenty-three. He guessed left and turned in that direction. He raised his hand to knock, but froze when an anguished scream raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
“Christy!”
Startled, he stumbled back, bumping against the wall opposite the door. He was too late. He spun and slammed the side of his fist against the wall, a curse ready to explode off his tongue, when he heard fumbling at the door behind him.
“Help me! Someone!”
At the desperate plea, he lunged to the closed door. “Hello? You okay?” He knew it was a stupid question. Of course things weren’t okay.
The door cracked open before a young women clutching a limp, gray baby, elbowed it wide.” My baby.” Wild, desperate eyes met Mark’s. “Please...”
Mark swallowed the acid in his throat and instinctively reached for the infant. “What happened?” He couldn’t let on that he already knew. That led to questions he couldn’t answer.
“I forgot her in the tub!” She clutched the baby and gave her a shake. “Oh god! Christy! She’s not breathing!”
“I know CPR—give her to me.” His sharp tone sliced through the mother’s shock and she released her daughter wi
th a wail of grief.
Mark positioned the baby with her head in his hand, her bottom in the crook of his arm.
The mother keened with her hands balled in front of her mouth. “Help her!”
The poor woman was teetering on the edge of hysteria, not that Mark could blame her. He was toeing the line himself, but he couldn’t cross it. Not if there was a chance of saving the baby. With his free hand, he caught the mother’s arm and gave it a firm squeeze. “I’m gonna help her, but you gotta listen to me. You need to call 9-1-1. Got it?”
She tore her gaze from her daughter, nodded, and raced back into her apartment. Mark wracked his brain, searching for a scrap of CPR knowledge that he knew was there. He cringed at the baby’s glassy stare and blue-tinged lips. Her legs dangled lifelessly over his arm.
ABCs. That was it. Airway, breathing and circulation. He didn’t see any water in her mouth, so her airway seemed okay. He covered her miniature nose and mouth with his own, feeling like a big clumsy oaf. Her scent filled his nose—so clean and innocent. Like baby shampoo and powder. A damp, silky tuft of her hair tickled his cheek. If she died, it’d be his fault. He could have prevented this. He blew again. There wasn’t time to worry about guilt now.
Her chest rose with the breaths and he felt it move against his arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw doors down the hall opening, and a small crowd gathered around him. Some shouted instructions, and a deep voice ordered someone to the lobby to let the paramedics in when they arrived.
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