Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series)

by M. P. McDonald

  Chapter 10

  Soon after Jim left, Mark's next customer arrived. For the next couple of hours, he tried to forget about Jim's news and concentrate on business, but if anyone had asked him details about shooting the aspiring actor's head-shot, he couldn't have given any. He just hoped the customer was happy with the results. They had looked okay on the LCD screen on the back of his camera, but he knew the image shown there wasn't completely accurate. There could be some blurring, imperfections, shadows or any number of other things that could mar the photographs. If they were crap, he'd offer a re-shoot at no charge, but he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

  For once, he had no pressing business to attend to. He'd even paid all the bills and balanced the checkbook, a chore he hated. It was only six p.m. and he couldn't remember the last time he'd had too much time on his hands. At least, not since he'd been released from prison.

  Mark made a sandwich and took it to the sofa to eat while watching T.V. He lifted the top slice of bread from his sandwich to tuck a stray leaf of lettuce back on top of the turkey. As he took his first bite, a story about a freak accident involving a gust of wind that toppled a tree onto a car and killed the occupant was playing on the news. The sandwich turned into sawdust in his mouth and a chill raised the hairs on his arms. The face of the victim flashed on the screen, holding Mark captive. He couldn't look away. He knew he'd never seen the woman before, and yet she looked familiar. He couldn't grasp how he knew her; just that he did. Somehow.

  Closing his eyes, the image of the woman parking a car played in his head. Her blonde hair formed a curtain as she turned off the ignition and he heard the click of the door latch as she started to open the door. At the last second, she seemed to forget something and let the door hang partially open as she reached into the backseat and retrieved a large purse.

  Mark's throat worked as he tried to call to her, but no sound came out. Instead of exiting the vehicle, she sat and dug in her purse for something. A sudden blast of wind sent dead grass, leaves and dirt into his face, and he raised his arm, blocking the debris. An instant later, a huge tree crushed the car—a red Mustang.

  A jolt passed through him and he blinked, almost surprised to find himself still sitting on the couch. He didn't think he'd fallen asleep, the sandwich was still clutched in his hand, the bread a little worse for the wear although the lettuce had escaped again. It hadn't been a dream because it didn't have the details he was used to seeing. It had been more like seeing a random video clip. In fact, he wondered if that's what had happened. Had he zoned out while the news played a clip of the tragedy and he only thought it was a vision?

  He tossed the sandwich onto his plate and ground his fists against his eyes. Even as he tried to rationalize what he'd experienced, he suspected the cause of the vision. It was the camera. Mo had used it but something had gone wrong. Maybe he'd developed the film just moments ago. Mark never had the dreams until he'd developed the film. Or someone else did.

  While in prison, he'd had a few dreams after Jessie had used the camera. He hadn't known it then, and hadn't learned about it for months, but she had developed the film right away, the first time to get photos of her niece's dance recital, the second time as proof to show Jim about the camera’s magical qualities.

  Since then, he'd been the only one to use the camera and so he expected the dreams, but this—it had blindsided him. Would it happen every time Mo or someone else used the camera? Would he randomly get slammed with a vision he was helpless to change? Shaken, he stood and paced the loft. He picked up the phone, needing to talk to someone about this new development. It wasn't that he expected anyone else to know the answers to his questions, but a friendly voice would be nice. Someone to tell him it would all be fine.

  He pressed the on button, but clicked it off after a moment. There was no one to call. Jim was no longer an option, and Jessie now worked for Jim, and he didn't want to put her in an awkward position.

  Lily was still on her cruise and even if she hadn't been, she was now in Jim's camp. It wasn't fair to think of Jim as being on the other side, like an enemy, but at the moment, a cold sense of abandonment washed over him.

  He looked at his speed-dial. That left the pizza or Chinese food restaurants as almost the only other numbers on his list. He shook his head with a wry smile. Although he was on a first name basis with the delivery people at both restaurants, they weren't quite what he needed right then.

  There was one more number. His parents.

  Mark plopped onto the edge of his bed. He had been home for Christmas, plus a few other times. Twice, his parents had come to Chicago, but the camera had loomed, straining their relationship. They never quite understood it, and after Mark had become front page news, they worried about the danger it posed for him.

  If he called them now, his mother would ask a hundred questions, and his dad would want to know what he'd done wrong, but, in the end, they'd be on his side. Mark took a deep breath and dialed their number.

  A few seconds later, his mother answered the phone. He could hear the smile in her voice and the corners of his mouth turned up. He made small talk for a few minutes and listened while she updated him up on happenings around his old hometown.

  It caught him off-guard when she cut off her recital of Aunt Faye's hip replacement surgery with an abrupt, "What's wrong, Mark?"

  He'd been about to make up an excuse that he was just calling to say hello, and not mention anything about the camera, but unprepared, he simply blurted out, "The camera's gone, Mom."

  "Gone? Gone where?"

  He poured out the story, but spared some of the details of how Mo had persuaded him to reveal the camera's whereabouts. "So, that's it. Mo has the camera and that's the end of the story."

  "What about that FBI guy? Jim?"

  "Officially, he can't do anything. Now that I don't have the camera, I'm of no use to them."

  "You mean they'll just let Mohommad gallivant all around the country with your camera?"

  The mental image of Mohommad 'gallivanting' forced a reluctant smile. "Oh, they want to catch him because he's not supposed to be in the U.S., but theft of an old camera isn't going to make him number one on the FBI’s most wanted list."

  There was a pause, and she asked, her voice hesitant, but with a hint of hope, "So, does this mean you're all done with...with the dreams and photos? You can get back to a normal life?"

  "Yeah, I guess so." Head bent, he squished the lettuce against the table with his index finger. He'd been about to tell her about the waking dream he'd just had, but he didn't have the heart to kill the hope. He just couldn't. It was obvious what she wanted for him, and it wasn't to be some kind of modern day Lone Ranger. "Anyway, I just thought I'd let you and Dad know, so if you could just tell him about it, that would be great. I'm sure he'll be happy too. No more chance of embarrassing him by making headlines"

  "He's proud of what you've done; he just has a hard time expressing it."

  Mark massaged his forehead and reined in the bitter tone that ached to run loose. "Right. After that mess with the cult, his pride shone so bright, it blinded me every time I came to visit."

  "That was different. You were all over the news, like...like you were some kind of freak. Your father was angry at the news media, not you, Mark. He felt helpless and was worried sick about you."

  Not enough to make the trip down to Chicago though, Mark thought but didn't voice. "I know. Well, I have to get going. I'll talk to you soon."

  "Wait. Now that you don't have to deal with the camera, maybe you could come home for a little vacation?"

  "I'll think about it, Mom."

  After he hung up, he tossed the phone on the bed and leaned his elbows on his knees, cradling his head. The vision or whatever it was, could be a one-time thing, or it might not have anything to do with the camera. Maybe he'd just conjured the whole vision while the news report gave the details. When he was a kid, he'd often been accused of having a wild imagination, so that's all it was—hi
s imagination working overtime to make up for the loss of the camera.

  * * *

  The next night, Mark awoke in the early morning from a dream about a man who was electrocuted when he had the misfortune to lean against a fence connected to a light pole at a baseball diamond. The dream was too murky for him to make out details, but he tried to find the correct field. He checked the Chicago Park District's map of ball fields, and drove to more than half of them before he ran out of time. None had matched the dream.

  The ten o'clock news had run the story and as difficult as it was, Mark had to watch. He had to know the name of the man he'd been unable to save. A ball of fury ignited in his belly as he leaned in to hear the story. The victim had been the father of one of the players. For the rest of his life, the son would have to live with the fact that his father had died watching his game.

  He aimed the remote at the TV and jammed the off button. His anger un-sated, he whipped the remote against the opposite wall, his breath blasting out in ragged gasps as the remote exploded in a shower of plastic.

  It was a completely senseless death. One which Mark could have easily prevented if only he'd had more details. He’d bet that if he had viewed the photos, like he normally would have, somewhere in them would be a sign with the name of the field, or the baseball uniforms would have the names of the teams. He would have just found out the schedule, and been at the right field at the right time.

  It was late, but he needed to expend his pent up rage, so he changed into his running gear and took off.

  An hour later, drenched in sweat and exhausted, he returned home and headed straight for the shower. As the water sluiced over him, he wondered if he was going to be hit with another dream that night.

  Just in case, he put a pad of paper and a pencil beside the bed so he could write down as much as he could while the details were fresh upon waking.

  Chapter 11

  Images of a train exploding as passengers boarded and exited an 'L' car filled his early morning dream. The second his eyes snapped open, he grabbed the paper and sat on the edge of the bed while he wrote down everything he could recall. He filled an entire page and was even able to remember what line and track. The time of the disaster was more of a guess, but he knew which way the tracks faced, and the sunlight suggested late afternoon. It was the closest he could approximate.

  After recording it all, he scrubbed his hands down his face, the rasp of his morning shadow loud in the loft. Now what? It wasn't like he could defuse a bomb or call a halt to a train schedule. He had to tell someone, but whom? Jim would be the natural choice, but would he be able to muster an investigation based on merely a dream? He didn’t doubt that Jim would believe him, but there was no proof, and without it, Jim’s hands would be tied. The FBI wasn't the same as the local police where you could call in a suspicious person and they would check it out. It would probably be better to go through proper channels with the Chicago police being the logical place to start. If they felt it was a terrorist plot, they'd call in the FBI.

  Mark stood and retrieved his cell phone from the coffee table. A glance out the window revealed gray skies and whirling brown leaves. He shivered as a blast of wind rattled the windows. He sat on the edge of the couch, pulled the afghan off the back, draping it one- handed over his shoulders.

  Why couldn't the dream have shown him more? The face of the culprit, for starters, but also the exact time of the explosion would have been helpful. The only information he had was a location, 'L' platform, and a rush-hour time frame.

  After taking a deep breath, he pressed the emergency numbers.

  "911. What's your emergency?"

  Mark cleared his throat. "I want to report an impending problem on the Brown line—well, actually at the Merchandise Mart station."

  "Impending problem? I'm sorry, sir, could you be more specific?"

  "I overheard someone talking about an explo—" This was all wrong. How could he be more specific? "Uh...never mind. Everything is fine now. The train was running late, is all." He jammed the off button and hoped they didn't call back to follow up.

  Jessie. Even if she no longer worked as a Chicago detective, she'd at least be able to advise him whom to contact.

  Despite the nature of the call, he couldn't help the current of anticipation that hummed through his veins as he waited for her to answer.

  "Hey, Mark.'

  He smiled, flattered to realize that she must still have him programmed into her phone. "Hi, Jess. I'm sorry to bother you, but I’m hoping you can help me." Mark leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, staring at his balled up dirty socks on the floor. He felt like he should make small talk, but he didn't have time and doubted she did either. "I, uh, I had a dream last night. It was a bad one—way beyond my ability to fix it."

  "What do you mean you had a dream? Did you get the camera back somehow?"

  "No, but Mo must be using it because I've been getting the dreams even without having it in my possession."

  "Are you sure they're camera related dreams? How's that possible?"

  There was skepticism in her tone. He was used to it, but not from her. Not for a long time, anyway. "I have no idea how it's possible. You might as well ask how the camera gives the damn future photos to begin with." He kicked the socks over to the pile of dirty clothes in the corner. "Remember when I was in prison, and you used the camera? Well, same thing. I just know that I dreamed of an explosion on the platform this afternoon. At the Merchandise Mart stop. The only other detail I can give you is there were a helluva lot of dead and injured folks lying on the platform when it was over."

  "Hold on. Just calm down, okay? I believe you." There was a pause and he heard her rummaging around for something. "I'm still in orientation, you know. I don't even have a desk yet so I need to find something to write on."

  "I'm sorry, Jess." He straightened, took a deep breath and let it ease out before continuing, "I'm just keyed up. Without a photo to scan for more clues, I feel like I'm reading a book with half the pages torn out."

  "Okay. I have a pen so give me what you have."

  Mark relayed what he remembered of the dream, but the details were still too sketchy. He wished he could transfer the image in his head to a visual for her.

  "That's not much to go on, Mark. I have no idea who I could convince to investigate this."

  "What about Jim?'

  "He had to fly out to D.C. and I barely know the guy covering for him. Besides, I'm way down on the totem pole here, Mark. Just let me think a minute."

  Mark gnawed at a ragged cuticle. She had to know somebody after all her years of experience.

  After a pause, she said, "I guess I could call Dan, my old partner on the force."

  Relief washed over him. "That would be great."

  "He may call you for details though."

  "What do I tell him? After all that cult stuff, he must think I'm a crackpot."

  "No, he has an inkling that something is up with you. Way back, before I believed your story, I told him what you told me in the prison cell."

  "You told him? Jessie...damn." He could just imagine how that conversation went.

  "It was a long time ago and it's a good thing I did because he's the only one I can think of who might be able to carry off preventing the explosion without casting suspicion on you. Good thing you called me first."

  Heat raced up Mark's face. "Uh...well, you're actually the second person. I called 911 first."

  "You what?"

  "I didn't know who to call, okay? My first impulse was to call 911 because I wanted someone to do something immediately. What was I supposed to do? It's not like the dreams come with a manual! With you off the police force, I didn't know where to turn."

  Her breath sounded loud in his ear, and he pictured her sighing and possibly rolling her eyes at him—not that he could blame her.

  "I'll give Dan a quick call and fill him in, but I have to get to a meeting in a few minutes, so I won't be able to follow up with
you for a couple of hours."

  "Thanks, Jessie."

  "No problem. I just hope everything works out."

  Mark had the same thought as he hung up.

  * * *

  Mark dressed and ran downstairs to the studio to re-schedule his appointments while he waited for Dan to call. Luckily, there were only two clients booked, and both were okay with the rescheduling. One even expressed relief because her son was sick and she'd planned on canceling anyway. Cramming the last bit of a granola bar in his mouth, he almost choked on it when someone pounded on the front door. What the hell?

  He hurried to the door as the pounding came again. A man had his hands cupped on the front window, peering in. With the distortion of the glass, it took a second for Mark to recognize Jessie's former partner. He unlocked the door and opened it.

  "How's it going, Mark?" Dan extended his hand and Mark shook it.

  "Okay. Good to see you, Dan." He motioned towards the back to the office. "Why don't we have a seat?"

  "Thanks. Glad to hear things are going well with you finally. It's been...what? Six months since that cult nut job tried to kill you?" He grinned. "I knew the peace was too good to last."

  Mark nodded, feeling awkward in the detective's presence now that he knew the other man had seen photos of him from an interrogation session. It wasn't his best moment, and Dan, at six-foot four inches, and a good 250 pounds, was intimidating enough. "Yeah. I've been trying to fly under the radar, but today, I need some help. Did Jessie fill you in?"

  Dan pulled out a notebook and flipped it open. "Yes, but I have to admit, I didn't know what the hell she was talking about. You had a dream that a train on the Brown Line blew up?"

  "I'm not sure how much you know about my...ability, for lack of a better word." Mark braced his elbows on the desk and massaged circles on his temples as he tried to clarify what he wanted to say. Would it really matter if the knowledge got out? The cat was already out of the bag anyway, so to speak. The camera had been stolen, the damage already done.