Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series)

by M. P. McDonald

  The news segment returned from a commercial and he listened, clenching the steering wheel as the deejay covered world news, then moved on to national, before finally coming back to local news.

  “Local authorities confirm they have a person of interest in the thwarted ‘L’ platform bombing attempt. They are not releasing any more information at this time. Anyone with information is still urged to contact the police.”

  Mark released a long shaky breath, his arms loosely draped over the top of the steering wheel. So his name wasn’t out there. He wondered at that. Had his dream been wrong? Had he fled for no reason? Uncertainty and confusion plagued him. Should he just go back to the loft? If only he could contact someone, but his cell phone was out of the question even if he had brought it with him. It was sure to be tracked, and he’d foregone even carrying it in case they could follow his movements by cell phone towers. Mark was far from a tech expert, but he remembered how an older couple who had made a wrong-turn in a snowstorm out West somewhere in the mountains, were finally found, in part, because the cellphone signal had given rescuers a general location on where to carry out the search.

  He turned and looked out the rear window. A few people entered the ER, but nobody was exiting. His gaze dropped to the notebook Zaira had given him. It lay on the passenger seat where he’d tossed it upon entering the car. He flipped it open and read from the list of names. Some he recognized as fellow photographers, and others he’d even seen recently at various shoots. While he supposed they could have made contact with Mo, he thought it unlikely. Other than the names and some addresses, there was nothing else. Who were these people?

  Resting his head against the back of the seat, he tried to put himself in Mo’s shoes. Think! What did Mo absolutely require? Food and shelter. Okay. Food wouldn’t be much of an issue. Mo could probably walk into any fast food restaurant or grocery store and buy whatever he needed. Unlike Mark, Mo would be able to come and go freely in complete anonymity.

  Shelter. Once again, Mo had the advantage over Mark with the ability to blend in. His face had never been splashed across all the various media. He had never given a press conference, as Mark had been forced to do after being released from the hospital.

  Wait a minute. Mo had been arrested as an enemy combatant before Mark. He would have had at least some mention in the news. So, maybe he was doing his best to fly under the radar too. Would he seek out help from the Muslim community? Mark knew there was a sizable one in the area, but since Zaira seemed genuine when she had professed no knowledge of her brother’s whereabouts, and she was active in the community, Mark had a feeling that Mo was steering clear of them. Of course, Zaira could be covering for him. It would be understandable given how close Mo had been to his sister, but he hadn’t picked up on any hesitations on her part that would point to dishonesty.

  Mo had threatened a large scale attack against the city. It was possible the train track bombing was the big event and Mark had disrupted it. Did that mean Mo would give up and get out of Dodge, so to speak? On one hand, Mark hoped it was the case. If Mo didn’t flee, it was because he had a reason to stay. The only reason Mark could think of was because Mo was planning another attack. That would mean people, potentially a lot of people, were at risk. On the other hand, Mark wanted Mo to stick around at least long enough for Mark to get the camera back somehow.

  Okay, focus on practicalities. The guy had to sleep sometime. Mark rubbed his eyes, wishing he had his own hideout where he could catch a few hours of rest. Had it only been this morning that he had awakened in his bed after the dream of capture? It seemed like a week ago.

  With a sharp jerk of his head and a few hard blinks, he returned his attention to the notebook. The orange light cast by the vapor lamps gave the interior of the car a surreal glow and he had to squint to make out the names. Several were Muslim names, and he noted the addresses as not too far away from Zaira’s. Those might be the most logical place to start.

  If he were Mo, that’s where he would go. If the list was accurate, Mo had quite a few friends in the Muslim community. Mark opened the glove box and fished around until he found a pen buried under the auto manual. He’d known his dad would keep a pen there. With another sweep of his hand, he found a small notebook that almost matched the one Zaira had given him, and as a bonus, he found a roadmap of Illinois. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. His father hated driving in the city and even after so many years with Mark living in Chicago, he still checked the route with the map before he and Mark’s mom drove down to visit.

  Sending a silent thank you to his dad, he spread the map open, then took another look outside to make sure nobody was paying attention. Satisfied that his car hadn’t attracted undue notice, he circled and numbered areas on the map that corresponded to the addresses in the notebook. He understood best with visuals and seeing the locations on the map helped him to form a plan.

  After he located all the approximate addresses, he studied the map, noticing a pattern. It became immediately apparent there were two concentrations of dots. Some on the west side of Chicago not too far from Zaira’s home corresponded to the Muslim sounding names. The other cluster was north of the city in the Waukegan area.

  Most of those names in the second concentration were Hispanic and the thought triggered a memory of Mo talking about an ex-girlfriend who had been Hispanic. Had she been from Waukegan? He couldn’t remember if Mo had ever told him. He’d said that the first time he’d gone to her family’s home, they had been talking about him to each other. Some of it had been complimentary, but some, not so nice. It had given him a kick to reply to one of the not so nice comments with one of his own in fluent Spanish. Mark jotted that fact down as something to keep in mind. If Mo had remained clean-shaven since the last time Mark had seen him, he could be mistaken for Hispanic with his dark hair and eyes. His features, if someone looked closely, would give him away as Middle-Eastern descent, but if he spoke Spanish people might not look too closely. Mark figured people generally saw what they expected to see.

  His musing was interrupted when the owner of the car beside his returned. Mark hadn’t even been aware the people were there until the door slammed just a few feet from his car. Startled, he jerked the map down and tossed it on the passenger seat. He’d been here an hour already. Damn. Jamming the car into reverse, he backed up and left the hospital lot.

  He had to find a place he could park and get a least a few hours of sleep. Parking on the street in Chicago was out of the question. He’d either get a ticket, or someone would notice him. Street parking was at a premium in many neighborhoods, and his car, with Wisconsin plates, would attract attention. Although he hated to do it because it felt like he was driving away from where he needed to be, he headed north. Wisconsin plates would be more common up there, and he was sure he could find a dark road to park on. Thirty minutes later, he found what he was looking for in Highland Park. A tree-lined dead-end street with a few cars on it. Not too many that Mark would be taking anyone’s spot, but not so few that his would stand out. There was even an alley that cut through to another street if he needed an escape route. Seeing nobody around, he quietly got out and popped the trunk in search of a blanket. Once again, his father hadn’t disappointed him. There it was, along with a gallon of water, flares, some kind of energy bars and a flashlight. Taking the water and the blanket, he started to close the trunk, but stopped and grabbed three of the bars as well, tucking them into his coat pocket.

  Mark’s sleep came in fitful spurts. The blanket was itchy and smelled of exhaust, and his legs cramped from their awkward position. In order to fit comfortably, he sat propped against the driver’s door and angled his legs across into the passenger seat leg area. It allowed him to extend his legs fully, but he grimaced and reached for his lower back. He’d definitely be stiff in the morning. The back seat looked inviting, but with a last longing look, he decided against it—too much chance of being trapped. He wasn’t sure who would trap him, but all it would take was
one cop, curious about a car with out-of-state plates, running the plate number and at a minimum, he’d be questioned. At least in the driver’s seat, he could drive away if he had to.

  He had parked facing out of the dead end, and after taking a last look around, he closed his eyes and tugged the blanket tight over his shoulders.

  Mark wasn’t sure if it was the longest night ever or the shortest. Every time he opened his eyes, the dashboard clock had jumped ahead an hour or so, but the frequent awakenings made the night seem to last days. In between waking moments, he had vivid dreams. Were they camera triggered dreams or just regular ones? It was hard for him to determine because of his fatigue. Instead of having one dream from start to finish, he seemed to be starting and stopping the same dream over and over through the night. Mohommad appeared in the dream. He and Mo were on a sidewalk somewhere, and Mohommad carried the camera as he strolled away from Mark towards a black Ford. Mark jogged to catch up and called out to him. Mo turned, one hand going to his pocket and there was a glint of metal an instant later.

  Mark awoke with a start. Pink streaked the eastern sky and the interior of the car was lit with a soft pink glow. Stiffly, he pulled his legs onto the driver’s side and turned to face the steering wheel, pounding his hand on it. Shit! He’d woken up too soon. Where had Mo been, and what had he been going for in his pocket? A gun? Knife? Cell phone?

  As he stretched in the limited confines of the car, Mark tried to piece together the dream. A huge yawn overtook him as he dug through the accumulating mess on the passenger seat and found the notebook Zaira had given him. Swiping the map to the floor, he found the pen and jotted down everything he could recall about the dream. There had been a hospital, but it wasn’t the one he had left last night. This one was beside a park, but in the dream, he saw it only in passing as though riding in a car. As he dredged up the remnants of the dream, a cop car approached his car from the other direction. As Mark held his breath, the patrol turned right, and continued on its way, but not before spooking Mark.

  He made it back to the highway and headed north again. Waukegan was only twenty minutes away, so he decided to investigate some of the names he’d found in the notebook. Mark rubbed a hand across the prickly stubble on his jaw. Before he approached anyone, he needed to change clothes and clean up. His stomach growled too, so when he noticed a diner along the road, he turned in. He was far enough away from Chicago, he didn’t think anyone would be looking for him up here and since his name hadn’t been released, he decided to take a chance.

  Thirty minutes later, he left the restaurant and continued north. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was going to do when he got there, but he could at least check some of the addresses, and besides, something in the dream had triggered an impulse to head to Waukegan.

  * * *

  As soon as Mark exited the highway, he knew he’d been right. Although he’d never been to the town before, the hair on his arms rose and a sense of déjà vu washed over him. Trusting his instinct, he cruised the street, slowing when he recognized the Italian restaurant. He spotted an empty parking space in front and pulled into it. He wiped damp palms on his jeans and sat for a moment. He wished for the hundredth time since he’d woken up, that he’d seen the end of the dream. Since he didn’t know the outcome, he didn’t know if he should be here or not. Maybe this was where Mo killed him and he had unknowingly driven himself right to his own execution.

  The spotted the car that Mo had been heading for, and it was parked in the same spot he’d seen in his dream, so Mo was somewhere around. He dismissed the dentist’s office, and the car was parked too far from the restaurant if Mo was inside eating lunch. It wasn’t a far walk, but there was a small parking lot across from the restaurant so it didn’t make sense that Mo would park down the street and around the corner if he didn’t have to.

  The house on the fourth corner was a possibility, but just as Mark considered it, a mother and a small child exited. The little boy wore a backpack that was almost bigger than he was but it didn’t seem to slow him down as he hopped down the sidewalk, apparently trying to miss the cracks. The duo didn’t go far, as they waited on the corner and a few minutes later, a city bus stopped and picked them up. Mark let out a sigh of relief. At least he didn’t have to worry about a small child in the vicinity if things turned ugly.

  Ruling out the house left just the laundromat or the apartments above it. Mark opened the door and stood beside the car, getting his bearings. Tugging his ball cap down, he headed towards the laundromat. Timing had been his biggest uncertainty. The dream had been so disjointed, he could only hope he could deduce the correct time by gauging it as late morning based on…what? The light? The sun was hidden behind a thick layer of steel gray clouds, and it could just as easily have been late afternoon instead of late morning. Still, this looked right and so far, his dream had been correct. The town was the one from his dream and this was the exact corner. He’d trust his gut once more and bet that any minute, Mo would show up.

  He crossed the street to be on the same side as Mo would be when he appeared, and no sooner had his foot hit the curb, than a door on the side of the building opened and Mo stepped out, the camera dangling negligently from his hand by the neck strap. Almost as though he was expecting Mark, he turned towards him.

  Of course. Mark mentally slapped his forehead. Mo had to have used the camera to create the pictures that Mark had dreamed, so he would have known Mark would be here. Even after dealing with the camera for several years, the concept didn’t come naturally to Mark, and having the camera in someone else’s control while he still had the dreams threw all of his prior knowledge about how it worked into a blender and mixed it all up into a fine puree. Right now, it was like he and Mo each held half the pieces of a puzzle. Who would fill in the blanks first?

  “Mark.” Mo wore a ragged pea green Army surplus jacket. He held a set of keys, occasionally twirling the ring around his index finger in a nervous habit Mark remembered from before. Had the keys caused the glint?

  Mark stopped several feet away, his hands ready at his side. “Give me the camera back.”

  Mo’s eyebrows shot up and then he grinned. “Really? And you think I’ll return it to you just like that?” He snapped his fingers.

  “Listen, I’m still getting the dreams. I can still prevent whatever you might plan so the camera isn’t really any use to you. I had a dream last night,” he pointed at the sidewalk, “about finding you, and here you are.”

  “Ah, I wondered how the police were able to find the explosives so easily. I guess you dreamed that too? And here I thought my idea was genius.” His tone held no hint of anger, and if the topic of conversation had been different, they might have been trading jabs about favorite football teams instead of casually discussing thwarted terrorist attacks. “I could just stop using the camera.” He smirked.

  Mark inched closer. “Can you really do that?” It was a wild guess, but he knew first-hand how the urge to use the camera was almost irresistible and hoped it had captured Mo in its spell too. “Are you getting the dreams?” He was almost certain Mo wasn’t. At least, he hoped that was the case. The only other experience he’d had with something like this was when he’d been in prison and Jessie had used the camera, causing Mark to dream of the photos even though he was a thousand miles away.

  Anger darkened Mo’s features for the first time as he held the camera up by the strap and gave it a shake. “I don’t need dreams when I have the photos.”

  “Why do you need the photos at all, Mo? Why are you doing this?”

  “I have my reasons and you would never understand.”

  “You’re right. I don’t understand. You have a sister and nieces here. Do you realize what this could do to them?”

  “This has nothing to do with them.”

  Mark shook his head. “Really? You don’t think so? How many times is the FBI going to have to visit Zaira?” He tried to appeal to Mo’s sense of honor. “Your nieces—they’re the sweet
est little girls—and now they’re going to have to live with the stigma that their uncle murdered innocent people. Hell, some of their friends could be victims of whatever you have planned.”

  Mo glanced away for a second, and Mark saw a look of regret cloud his features. It was gone in an instant, replaced by rage. “My sister and her daughters will go back to Afghanistan with me. And there, I will be a hero.”

  “How? How the hell are you going to leave with your sister and her girls? It might be a little difficult for you to book a flight to Afghanistan.”

  “Mexico.”

  Mark gave a shake of his head and tried not to glance at the camera. Mo had lowered it, and the camera dangled by his knee. “Mexico? I don’t get it.”

  “That’s what my sister will have to do. I’ll meet her there, and then we can all four go back to Afghanistan.” He spoke as if it was the most logical thing in the world.

  “You’re crazy.” The slur came out before he could stop it. He wished he could reel it back in, but he couldn’t so he went with it. “Your sister wants nothing to do with Afghanistan. Her home is here. Her daughters were born here.”

  Mo’s eyes narrowed in fury and he jabbed a finger against Mark’s chest. “How do you know so much about my sister? Is that how you found me? What did you do to her? You must have forced her to betray me.”