"In a way, you're right. I do feel guilty and I'm not here to harm you, but only to make things right. To do that, I need to return this directly to your hands."
Mark let out a bitter laugh. "Well forgive me if I don't believe you." He turned, leaning a shoulder against the window as he attempted to see the area right beneath his windows. "Where's your buddy? Is he hiding along the wall?"
"I'm alone. I'm truly sorry for what happened before, Mark. Please, just allow me to return this. It is what I must do."
"You must think I'm crazy. I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm gonna hang up and call the police. How's that sound? If you want to leave the camera, fine, but I sure as hell am not coming down there to get it." Mark snapped the phone shut. His first instinct was to rush down to the street, find Mo and beat the living hell out of him, but his rational side took command and he followed through with his threat to call the police.
Two minutes later, he hung up, but anger and frustration built inside of him like fizz inside a dropped can of beer. The dispatcher had assured him they'd send a car to look around, but she was sorry. With no threat and no actual sighting of Mohommad, there wasn't much they could do. He'd tried explaining how Mo was wanted by the FBI, but she didn't seem to get it.
Next, he called the FBI, because Mark figured he was still a concerned citizen even if he wasn't an asset to anyone. After all, Mo had to be pretty high on the wanted list. He'd been an enemy combatant, after all, and banned from ever returning to the U.S. The fact that he was here should be cause enough to suspect him for the attempted bombing. He sat on the arm of the sofa, feet braced on the floor, drumming the leather as he waited to be connected to an agent. After a maze of re-directs, his call was finally answered by an agent who took Mark's information down and thanked him for the tip.
Afterward, Mark stared at his phone in disbelief. Where was the urgency? Didn't anyone care? Sure, he knew they were probably swamped trying to track down leads from the train thing, but didn't they realize there could be a connection? He shoved his phone in his pocket and strode to the windows again. The street was all but deserted. The brief nap had served to take the edge off his weariness, and Mohommad's call had left him too keyed up to sleep.
Mark noticed a police car cruising down the street towards his building. At least the cops were taking his call seriously. He shoved his feet into his shoes and grabbed a jacket, shrugging into it as he raced down the steps, hoping the cop hadn't passed already. He flung open the front door of the studio and raised his hand to flag down the officer. A sudden blast of light flashed in his face. Raising his hands, he stepped back, blinking. The sound of a camera being wound to the next frame came to him an instant before a second burst of light scorched his eyes.
"Hey!" Even as he squinted and rubbed his eyes, he knew what had happened. Mohommad had taken his picture with the camera. It had been an old fashioned flashbulb. He recognized the distinctive pop and hot scent of burning plastic. His camera had a place to screw in flashbulbs, but he'd rarely used it.
Footsteps sounded on the pavement racing around the corner of the building. Mark turned to give chase when the whoop of a police siren followed by blue flashers made him hesitate. Running from a police car was never a good idea, even if it was to give chase to the bad guy. Swallowing down his impatience, he approached the car, now parked against the curb and facing the wrong direction.
Mark motioned down the alley. "Officer, I'm the one who called about the man wanted by the FBI. He just ran around the back."
The cop rolled his window down a crack. "Step away from the vehicle, please."
"Oh, sure." Mark retreated as the officer climbed out of the car. He shot a glance to the mouth of the alley and sidled a few steps in that direction. "He's getting away. Aren't you going to go after him?"
The police officer glanced towards the alley, but made no move towards it. "Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?"
Mark bit back a sigh. "No, sir. I’m just concerned because the man I reported was just here."
"Did he threaten you in any way?"
"Not this time, but he's in the country illegally."
The cop chuckled and shook his head. "I'm not immigration, buddy."
"You don't understand—he's not an illegal alien—he's a...a..." Mark paused, unsure of the term to use. "Listen, he's a dangerous man. He was affiliated with al-Qaeda, and was banned from this country."
The cop cocked his head, a smirk twisting his mouth. "Really?"
It was on the tip of Mark's tongue to mention Mo's previous attack the week before, but the incident hadn't been reported. Even if he did tell them, there was no proof except what Jim had collected, and Jim had to be the one to offer that to the police.
His first fear was for his parents. Mo had threatened them, and Mark had no doubt he'd follow through. He should have never called the cops. It would only make things worse.
Mark spread his hands. "You know what? It's all a mistake. A friend and I had a disagreement, and in the heat of the moment, I called the police." He let his head dip, feigning chagrin. "We laughed it off before you pulled up, and I felt stupid for having called you so, I made up the terrorist thing. I'm sorry for taking up your time." He forced a smile.
The cop rolled his eyes in disgust and said something into his shoulder mic. "I could cite you for this, but I'll let you by with a warning because I have another call." He shook his finger in Mark's face. "Remember—emergencies only."
That night, Mark dreamed. He was the star this time. Unlike his usual dreams that showed the future, this one felt more like a nightmare. His encounter with Mo the week before and the police officer from the evening merged into a nightmare. Before he could process it, the nightmare morphed into a future dream. The edges sharpened, becoming a film playing on his personal mental screen.
Mark watched the dream aware that he was sleeping, but seeming to exist on another plane, as though in two places at once. He felt the bite of the handcuffs on his wrists and the ache in his bad shoulder when a Chicago police officer brought him to his feet by jerking up on his restrained arms. Fear, cold and heavy, grew in the pit of his stomach when the cop read the charges against him. Possession of a destructive device. Intent to use an explosive device. Transporting an explosive device. Each charge was a like bomb going off in his mind.
The worst part was seeing Jessie. She hadn't been the one to cuff him, thank God, but she was there, watching from the hallway. As he was led past her, she mouthed what looked like, 'Don't worry,' but it gave him little comfort because her gaze shifted when he tried to make eye contact.
Hot shame flooded his face, burning his cheeks. She didn't want to let on that she even knew him, let alone that they had been in love. Hell, Mark was still in love with her. Would they let him explain? Would he ever get out this time?
Chapter 14
Mark bolted awake, his heart pounding like the surf before a hurricane. They were coming for him today. His eyes darted to the clock. Five a.m. He rubbed his temples as he tried to recall the important details. They had burst in while he was doing a shoot. An engaged couple. The appointment book would tell him when that was scheduled. He shot out of bed and tore down the steps to the office.
He traced his finger down the page of the book. Eleven a.m. He blew out a breath and raked his hand through his hair. There was still time. He needed a plan.
First, he had to get away from here before they came for him. Would they have someone watching the building? Between living with Jessie, and hanging out with Jim, he’d learned a little over the last year or so, and he decided they'd be keeping an eye on him, but probably only one agent. Jim had complained once about not having enough agents to keep track of Chicago's virtual cornucopia of criminals, from terrorists and organized crime, to the random kidnapers and the occasional bank robber.
If he left soon, he could probably slip by undetected if he walked the opposite way down the alley, and onto the next street. By traveling back alleys
for several blocks, he could hop on a bus and disappear in the city and take public transportation to a far flung suburb. Which one, he wasn't sure.
His goal wasn't just to escape capture, but he needed to find Mo and find the camera. With the camera back in his possession, he could prove its magical capabilities again. He could even have an agent take a photo and Mark could give him a description of what the resulting pictures would reveal. They'd have to believe him then when he told them that is how he knew about the train bombing attempt.
Jim would back him up and Jessie, well, he didn't know where she fit into it all. She'd been there in his dream, and he knew she wouldn't have had any role in his arrest other than just being assigned to assist, but his feelings were too complicated and he didn't have time to dissect them. If he didn't hurry, he'd have the rest of his life to pick his feelings apart nerve cell by nerve cell as he rotted away in the brig.
He stripped and jumped in the shower. It was tempting to skip it and flee but the stale stench of fear clung to him from his dream. As he soaped up, his mind raced, darting off in different directions. Settle down. Think.
Money. He'd need money. After being arrested as an enemy combatant and returning to find all his accounts frozen, he'd taken to keeping cash in several stashes throughout his loft and studio. Never again would they take him unprepared. He even kept a box in the woodshed behind his parents' house.
It was cold enough to dress in layers without attracting too much attention. He could change his look by simply removing the sweater or button-down. Mark wished he could pack a bag, but was worried it would slow him down. He grabbed a baseball cap out of his closet. It wasn't much but it would offer at least a little concealment. Next, he retrieved the money. Three stashes of five hundred each. Another thousand was at his parents. Well, he'd have to go there anyway to warn them about Mohommad. He didn't dare use his phone as he was positive they would have put a tap on it.
He stuffed the cash in various pockets. His dad had given him a Leatherman for Christmas, probably hoping Mark would go hunting with him again soon, but it had sat untouched in his nightstand drawer. The gadget was practically a whole tool box loaded into a pocketknife and could come in handy. If nothing else, he wouldn't be totally defenseless.
Standing in the middle of the loft, he patted his pockets as he took inventory. Money. Leatherman. Wallet. Keys. His eye fell on a bowl of fruit on his kitchen counter. Food. He'd need to eat and might have to do it on the go. There were always convenience stores or fast food, but those places all had security cameras. The fewer he had to frequent, the better off he'd be. He scrounged around his cupboard and found a couple of granola bars, and a handful of snack packs of crackers and cheese. Not much, but along with the two bananas he ate as he prepared, they'd hold him until he could find something more substantial.
Mark gave a last look around his home. Would this be the final time he'd see it? Would he ever sleep in his own bed again? A lump rose in his throat but he forced it down. Time was wasting. As ready as he'd ever be, he crept down the stairs to the studio. A sliver of lighter sky could be seen out the east window. His cover slid over the horizon with every tick of the clock.
He eased the back door open and scanned the alley. It appeared clear. As quietly as possible, he crept along the side, keeping close to the shadows of the buildings. His toe connected with a beer bottle, sending it skittering under a dumpster with a dull clink. Mark flattened against the wall, his pulse thundering in his ears as the blood rushed through him. When no cry of alarm sounded, he let out a deep breath and continued to the far end. So far, so good.
The cross street had little traffic at this time of morning, and he dashed across without incident to where the alley continued on the other side. He was less concerned with sound now, and increased his pace. After five blocks, he deemed it safe to walk on the street and hailed a cab to take him to the bus station.
Mark rubbed his hands on his thighs as the cab sped through the streets. Only a few pedestrians dotted the sidewalks and he was glad he had decided on the cab. Not only was it faster, but there was less chance of being spotted. He wished he’d had time to check the bus schedules. The only time he’d taken a bus to his parents was right after his release from prison. There had been no need to hurry then, but he thought he remembered there had been an earlier one scheduled as well as the mid-morning one he had taken. If he was right, he could make it to his folks’ house before anyone even knew he was gone. If not, he'd have to take one somewhere else and backtrack, but by then, the FBI would probably already have his parents' house under surveillance.
Mark tried to keep his head down as much as possible as he crossed the bus station and bought a ticket. Eventually someone would check to see if he'd taken a bus, and they'd spot him on a security tape, but he wanted to make it as difficult as possible for them to identify him. He almost sagged in relief when he found out the next bus left in just fifteen minutes and was a direct route.
The other travelers paid no attention to him, most settling in to nap for the duration. After a half hour, he reclined in his seat and closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. Adrenaline still rushed through his veins, and so he used the time to plan his course of action.
Finding Mohommad was the objective; the only problem was he had no idea where to look. Mark searched his memories. Mo had a sister and Mark had even been to her house one time. She lived somewhere out by O'Hare. Park Ridge? Or was it Schaumburg? He concentrated, trying to remember. The towns all ran one into the other, and he got them mixed up all the time, but was almost certain it was Schaumburg.
In his mind's eye, he saw an invitation she'd sent him for a surprise 30th birthday party for Mo. He recalled getting lost and turned around, but had eventually found the house. When he'd left, he'd found an easier route to the expressway. It had been at least five years, but he was sure he could find her house again unless she'd moved.
He must have dozed because the next thing he knew, the bus stopped and he shot up in the seat and looked around in blind panic. It took him a moment to realize the other passengers were gathering their belongings together or making their way to the front of the bus. Mark glanced out the window.
They were here already. He stood and twisted his neck, working out a kink while he waited his turn to disembark. Outside the bus, he debated hitchhiking or taking a cab to his parents. It would cost a bit and the cabbie would likely remember him but hitchhiking wasn't a guaranteed ride, and walking ten miles would eat up a lot of time. He opted for a cab and hurried to the cab stand before they were all taken by other passengers.
His luck held and twenty minutes later, the cab dropped him off in front of his parents’ house. He glanced at his watch. Any minute, the FBI would be arriving at his studio and find him gone. His head start had vanished.
* * *
The last flowers of the season lined the flower beds and it looked like his dad had put a fresh coat of paint on the porch railings since he'd last been up to the house. That had been around early June. Mark had just recovered from the attack by Kern and his followers and his visit had been unsettling. His mother had doted on him, but he could see the hurt in her eyes that he hadn't called them. The fact that they were away on a cruise during the worst of it wasn't a good reason. He'd tried to explain his mixed up feelings, his shame and how he'd just wanted to forget it all, but eventually, he'd apologized.
Surprisingly, his father had been on Mark's side, understanding his need to work things out in his head, and other than asking him to call home if something like that ever happened again, so his mom wouldn't get the news from the papers, he'd not said anymore about it, which was fine with Mark. They had worked in the wood shop in the basement with Mark helping his dad build a new bench.
The scent of burning leaves on the crisp air triggered memories of apple picking and trick or treating. All were simple pleasures which seemed foreign now. He climbed the steps, and smiled to see the bench now painted white and sporting a brig
ht yellow cushion. Crossing to it, he skimmed a hand over the wood. It felt smooth and solid under his fingers. Solid and clean. It would last a long time.
The screen door creaked. "Mark! You about scared me half to death!"
Mark turned as his mom moved towards him, her arms outstretched. He moved into her embrace and kissed her cheek. "Hi, Mom. Sorry I didn't call first. It was last minute, and I didn't have time." He closed his eyes as he gave her an extra squeeze. The scent of cinnamon and coffee clung to her. That meant one thing. Fresh cinnamon rolls.
"Goodness, Mark." She smiled and skimmed her hand down his cheek. "It's always good to see you, whether you call or not. I was just on my way out to the shed to get your father."
"I'll get him if you save me the biggest cinnamon roll."
"Cinnamon roll?" She tilted her head, hands on her hips. "How did you know?"
Mark grinned and sniffed.
She laughed and ran her hand down his arm, hanging onto his hand for a moment. "For a second there, I thought maybe one of my cinnamon rolls ended up as a picture from your camera." The corners of her mouth turned down. "Oh, hon. I forgot. Have you heard anything from that Mohommad guy?"
He ducked his head, scuffing his toe against a small bit of dried mud stuck to the porch. "No. Not yet." Now wasn't the time to tell her. It would be better to tell both his parents at once.
"Go on. I'll save you the pick of the litter. Your dad shouldn't be eating them anyway." She returned to the house, the screen door slamming closed behind her, but not before letting more of the tantalizing aroma escape.
Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series) Page 74