Sensing that Mo had forgotten about the camera for a moment, Mark lunged and grabbed the straps, wrenching them from Mo’s grasp. Before Mark could turn to run, Mo tackled him, sending both of them slamming onto the pavement. Mark thrust the camera to the side to protect it from the fall, but immediately pulled it close to his body, ignoring the scrape of concrete against his cheekbone. The punch to his right kidney was more difficult to ignore as the pain made him arch away from it.
Mo yanked Mark’s shoulder, causing him to turn onto his side.
“Give it up! It’s mine now!”
“Like hell I will!” Mark swung his free arm and shoved it up under Mo’s chin, snapping his head back with a loud clink of teeth. It stunned the other man just long enough for Mark to scramble out from beneath him, but Mo recovered in time to snag Mark’s ankle, giving it a savage twist and Mark stumbled forward, catching his weight on one hand. With a grunt of pain, Mark tried to yank his foot away, but Mo held fast, so instead of pulling, Mark reversed his tactic and shoved his foot against Mo’s chest, knocking him backwards and causing him to lose his grip on Mark’s ankle.
Regaining his balance, Mark turned to run to the car, and in the process, ran into a woman carrying a basket of clothes. She apparently had stopped to gawk at the altercation. He mumbled an apology before bolting for the car. As he crossed the street, the whoop of a siren close by spurred him to power past the pain in his ankle.
He flung open the door and tossed the camera onto the passenger side as he jumped in and started the car. With a quick check of the mirror to make sure there were no cop cars approaching from behind him, he gunned the engine and did a U-turn, miraculously missing the cars parked on the other side of the street. Where was the highway from here? Reversing his route here wasn’t easy to do in his full-blown panic, but he managed to find the road back to the highway more by luck than any conscious effort on his part. At a stoplight, he reached up to touch below his eye. His hand came away smeared with blood. Damn it. The scrape would attract attention and that was the last thing he needed. He found a paper napkin in the glove box, wetted it from his water bottle and dabbed at the blood. After he cleaned it, it looked a little better. He tossed the napkins on the passenger seat and flipped the visor up as the light turned green.
Ten minutes later, he was on the highway and prayed he wouldn’t get stopped for speeding. Slowing until he was keeping up with the flow of traffic, he took a deep breath and tried to form a plan. First, he needed to get some film, and then take some photos. Without future photos, the police would just assume it was an old camera. Jim had dealt with the camera as an extension of his duties as a CIA officer and Mark wasn’t clear on how much, if anything, the FBI knew about it. Would Jim divulge the secret to the FBI or the Chicago PD? Given the agency’s notorious secrecy, Mark had his doubts, so, he tossed that hope out of the water. If Jim was going to protect him, he would have done it by now. His immediate concern was getting film, finding a place to develop it, and doing both without getting caught. He glanced in the rearview mirror, on alert for any cop cars. The woman outside the laundromat had seen him. She could give a good description and there was no way she hadn’t seen the car he got into. He’d have to ditch it somewhere. Scrubbing a shaky hand through his hair, he finally dared allow a little hope to enter his mind. He picked up the camera, immediately feeling the tingle of energy. Despite the throbbing of his ankle and the fear of capture, he smiled.
Chapter 18
Mark ditched the car in the long-term parking lot at O’Hare. It seemed the easiest solution. It wouldn’t be towed, at least not for awhile, and he took the ‘L’ back into the city. At every stop, he worried someone would recognize him, but nobody did. Exhausted, his ankle swollen inside his shoe and aching in every muscle of his body, he wanted only to find a place to sleep, but he didn’t have time yet. He needed film and then he’d have to use it. Running into a corner drugstore, he purchased the film and in his hurry, forgot to buy any snacks. At least he’d eaten a big breakfast, and his pack held a few of the energy bars from his dad’s emergency supply.
After snapping off the roll of film at the first park he came to, he returned to the drugstore, hoping to have them developed in one hour, but the clerk told him it was too late in the day. Frustrated, Mark bought a roll for the next day. It’s just one more day, he told himself. He could deal with that. No problem.
Hiding in plain sight once more, he sat on a window ledge of a sporting goods store and ate an energy bar. Most of the pedestrians ignored him, and the few who noticed him sitting there gave him a wide berth. He supposed he looked like just another vagrant. The bar barely put a dent in his hunger, but he levered up, gritting his teeth as he put weight on his ankle. The brief rest had caused it to stiffen. As he limped past a rundown motel, the kind that rented by the hour, he was tempted to get a room. He still had plenty of cash, so that wasn’t a problem; the motel looked disreputable, and he’d bet the night clerk wouldn’t even remember him. He’d just be another scruffy guy looking for a bed. If he slurred his words or picked up a prostitute, he’d probably fit right in. With a tired smile, he shook off the idea of the prostitute immediately. He already felt dirty enough and he’d hate to get anyone else involved. Rubbing his heavy five o’clock shadow, he knew it wouldn’t take much to fit in with the regular motel clientele and the scrape along his cheekbone only added to the affect.
He longed for a hot shower and a shave and he’d be able to get those, plus a good night’s sleep. Washing up at the tiny sink of the diner this morning wasn’t enough to make him feel clean. Decision made, Mark stepped into the parking lot deciding that the benefit out-weighed the risk. Already anticipating the shower, he strode between two parked vehicles and was about to cross the lane when a police cruiser turned into the other end of the motel lot. He stepped back, hunkering in the shadows until the car passed. In all likelihood, it was just a coincidence, but spooked at the near-miss, he about faced and left the lot. Tugging his baseball cap low over his eyes, he hurried from the vicinity.
* * *
Mark shivered and pulled the blanket tight under his chin as he curled on his side, the camera safely in the crook of his arm like a beloved teddy bear. The floor of the abandoned house was cold and hard beneath him. Even sheltered from the blast of the wind, it was freezing in the house. The broken window in the back didn’t help, although it had allowed him access.
He just hoped nobody else decided to use the building as a shelter. The scattering of empty liquor bottles and trash attested to the use of the house on previous occasions. His eyes felt gritty, but after a half hour, he found he was still too keyed up to sleep. Sitting, he grabbed his pack and dug around in the outer pocket for a granola bar. He finished all but the last inch of water in the bottom of the bottle, saving it for morning. Too bad there wasn’t running water in the house, but then he supposed it wouldn’t be abandoned if it had utilities.
Mark attempted to take his mind off his own problems by wondering about the people who used to live here. A naked Barbie doll did the splits in one corner of the room, and he imagined a little girl like one of Mo’s nieces playing with the doll. What he knew about toys and Barbie dolls in particular wouldn’t fill a pixel, but he was pretty sure that Mo’s nieces would have the doll dressed in regal splendor. Did the girl who had lived here just forget the doll or had she outgrown it? He climbed to his feet, leaving the blanket around his shoulders and jumped a couple of times, one hand steadying the camera to keep it from smashing him in the nose. If he could just get his blood pumping, he would warm up.
He glanced at the ceiling. Perhaps one of the rooms upstairs would be warmer. Grabbing his pack, he navigated by the light from a streetlight streaming through the windows. With no curtains, it was surprisingly bright in the front room, but the stairs were deep in shadow. At the base, he hesitated. Going up would mean being trapped if anyone else came in, but staying down here would mean spending the night freezing. They said heat rose, so
if any had built up during the day, it might still be trapped up there.
It was late and he was bone tired. He felt his way up the steps and turned the corner when he reached the top. A stench hit him like a slap to the face and he covered his nose. He’d been correct that it was warmer, but it smelled like something had died. Hesitantly, he went forward. He wasn’t sure about sleeping up here any longer, but he had to know what caused the foul odor.
Please don’t let it be a body.
Four doorways opened into the hall; all of them open. He peeked in the one on his left, but it was too dark to see, and the scent was less intense. After another forward step, he glanced in the room to his right. He fought not to gag as he scanned the room. Light filtered in from two windows and he spotted the source of the smell. It was a body, but not a human one. The tail gave it away as a raccoon. Relieved at finding the source, Mark closed the door to the room.
He returned to the first room at the top of the stairs, the one with the least odor, and settled in a corner. It was far from warm but better than the room on the main floor. Occasionally, he’d doze, but a sudden shudder would awaken him with a start. The isolation and frigid air took him back to his time in prison and the days he’d spent with nothing but a thin t-shirt and pants to keep him warm. To soften him up for interrogation, they had made the cell so cold, he had been convinced he would die although, he conceded, he would have welcomed it at that point.
Mark pulled the blanket up to his ears, leaving only his eyes exposed. His breath helped warm his cocoon. There had been a lot of things to hate from his time in the brig, but worse than the cold, and even worse than the waterboarding, had been the complete lack of contact with anyone, not even guards. His meal would slip through the slot at the bottom of the cell door, and often, they’d be so quiet, he’d not even hear them until they were gone. With no way to tell time, he’d been disoriented and they had exacerbated his confusion by staggering his meal times.
He blinked, pulling his mind to the here and now. He wasn’t in prison and he wasn’t going to go back. Ever. He rolled over, facing away from the wall. His eyes grew heavy and finally, he slept.
Mark awoke with a start, his heart galloping in his chest, and he jumped to his feet, camera still clutched in his arms. Something had woken him, but he wasn’t sure what. He snatched up his pack but left the blanket so he could move faster. The soft pink light of dawn filled the room so that must mean it was close to 7A.M. As he headed for the stairs, he froze at the voices he heard coming from the porch. The next sound, a key in a lock and a doorknob turning, sent him scrambling down the steps.
“Hey!”
Mark paused for a split second, undecided whether he should push past the men who blocked the door, or race for the back. The uniform of the second man made his decision for him. He bolted for the back of the house and dove through the window he’d come in the night before. His back scraped the top frame and he felt a burning sensation even through his jacket. He ignored it and tucked his head and turned so his shoulder would absorb the impact of the ground. The camera swung up and hit him in the chin. The window was only about five feet high, and a carpet of leaves broke his fall. He rolled to his feet, ignoring the shouts for him to come back.
He cut through alleys and backyards until he was at least six blocks away. He slowed to a fast walk, but adrenaline still raced through his veins and he couldn’t control his shaking. Why the hell had a cop come to the house? There was no way anyone could have known he was there. Out of breath, he staggered into the recessed back doorway of a restaurant and sank onto the top step. It was too early for the business to be open and a dumpster hid the steps from the road. Gasping, he released the pack, almost shocked to find he still had it with him. His hand was stiff from gripping the strap so hard and he opened and closed his hand a few times. After moving the camera down, putting his arm through the strap so the camera would angle across and rest on his side, he found the bottle of water. He guzzled it, but the meager amount remaining was just a tease. He stuffed the empty bottle back in the side mesh pocket, hoping to find a place to refill it soon.
A sharp throbbing in his back reminded him of his dive through the window. He removed his jacket and turned it over, grimacing at the jagged tear in the leather. A fragment of glass clung to the lining, and he plucked it out, flicking it into the dumpster. He recalled the shards of glass he’d avoided last night when he’d climbed through the window. It felt like he hadn’t made it through unscathed this time, but at least the leather had given him some protection. A deep scratch in the jacket above the actual tear attested to how much worse it could have been. He winced as he tried to stretch to find the cut, but it was beside his right shoulder blade and he couldn’t reach it. Putting the coat back on, he cringed as his shirt clung to his back with a clammy coldness that he hadn’t noticed before. He just hoped it didn’t bleed too much and wasn’t visible through the rip.
His stomach growled and he knew he’d have to go somewhere to get something to eat. A fast food restaurant would offer anonymity, but there were security cameras. He knew that nobody would scrutinize the tapes unless they had a reason, but if the police suspected he was in the area, they would question businesses and if anyone remembered him, they’d look at the tapes. A small diner might not have security tapes, but the waitress would be more likely to remember him. It was a toss-up, and so he decided to see if he could find a very busy diner in hopes that he’d just blend in with the morning rush.
As he lifted his pack, it occurred to him that wearing it would cover the rip in his coat, so he slipped it over his arms and shrugged to get it into position. It rubbed against the cut, but if he held the shoulder straps so the pack didn’t bounce, it was bearable.
Cautiously, he surveyed the street before exiting the alley. Morning traffic was picking up and included pedestrians. He joined the flow, avoiding eye contact and on the lookout for a place to eat while he planned his next move. Two blocks later, he found a tiny eatery that was busy enough to allow him to fade into the crowd. He stepped through the door and saw the sign for self-seating. Perfect. Even better, there was a table in the back corner next to a hallway with a sign above it pointing to the bathrooms. He sat down facing the front of the diner, setting his pack on the floor beneath the table. Reaching for the plastic menu which was tucked behind the salt and pepper holder, his mouth started watering. He was so hungry, he felt like he could eat the mega meal that included eggs, pancakes, and the rest of the works, but if he had to run again, he’d never make it with all that in his stomach. When the waitress came to take his order, he settled on scrambled eggs and toast, juice and coffee.
After ordering, he made a beeline for the bathroom, camera and pack in hand. He scrubbed his face and hands and rummaged in the pack until he found his clean shirt. As fast as he could, he stripped off his shirt, but took a moment to turn to look at the cut in mirror before putting on the clean one. The cut appeared deep, but only an inch or so long. Satisfied he would live, he dipped the cuff of the ruined shirt into warm tap water and then draped it over his back, catching it near his waist with his other hand. With a gentle see-saw motion, he cleaned off some of the blood. He used the dry sleeve to swipe the drips and put on the clean shirt, not feeling dressed again until the camera was once again safely around his neck. A few drops of pink-tinged water had splattered the ground so he mopped them up, finishing just as another man entered the restroom. Mark stuffed the dirty shirt in his pack and nodded to the man. Better to act normal than to avoid any interaction.
He returned to the table to find his juice and coffee waiting. He sipped the coffee first, craving a burst of caffeine and when his plate arrived a moment later, it was all he could do not to attack it like an animal. These eggs were nothing like the reconstituted ones he was served in prison. These were steaming hot, fluffy and piled high on his plate. Hash brown potatoes came with them, and he used the corner of his toast to scoop them onto the fork. For five minutes, he ate withou
t taking his eyes off his plate, so it didn’t immediately dawn on him that the diner had become very quiet. He stilled, praying that it was only because everyone was eating, but it was more, he felt it in his gut.
Outside the diner were two police cruisers and two dark sedans. Men in suits exited the sedans, and with a sick twist of his stomach that threatened to bring up the food he had just eaten, he recognized Jim. Should he wait and confront Jim? Now that he had the camera back, he could prove to the police how he had been able to predict the ‘L’ track bombing. Except he needed some future photos first, and if he was in custody, he would never get a chance to produce them.
He just needed a little more time. Mark grabbed his pack, and looked over his shoulder for a back exit. Glancing back to the front, he tried to judge if he could make it out the back before they entered the diner. An instant later, he decided he’d have to try no matter what. The alternative was capture and time in the brig again. The front bell tinkled as the door opened and Mark jumped from the booth and darted down the hallway. After that, all hell broke loose.
“Mark!”
“Freeze! Chicago PD!”
Rationalizing the police wouldn’t risk shooting in the crowded diner, Mark ignored the command and raced on, tossing his pack behind him in hopes of tripping any pursuers in the narrow hallway. Bursting through the back door, he found himself in a tiny parking lot surrounded by an eight- foot stockade fence. A delivery truck was parked alongside the fence and he bolted for it. Reaching for the grab bar, he used it to scramble onto the top of the cab.
“Mark! Wait!”
Jessie?
Crouching, he turned to see her standing in doorway, and an instant later, Jim rushed up behind her.
“Come on, Mark. Get down from there and let’s talk this out.” Her gun was in her hand, but pointed up.
Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series) Page 79