Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series)

by M. P. McDonald

  Twenty minutes later, he parked in front of his sister’s home. A little pang of something that felt suspiciously like homesickness stabbed him in the gut as he took in the Halloween decorations. He shook it off and tried to summon the anger that had sustained him since yesterday afternoon, when Mark had stolen the camera and implicated Zaira.

  He knocked on the door, resenting the fact that he no longer had a key to her house. As her brother, it was his right. Of course, Zaira couldn’t be blamed for that as he had never come to claim a replacement key, but he held onto the anger anyway.

  The door opened, and his sister’s face showed mild curiosity before recognition dawned. Her hands came to her mouth in surprise. “Mohommad?”

  Mohommad grabbed the door handle and entered, his very presence forcing her to take a step back and allow him entry. “Zaira. It’s been a long time. Have you missed me?”

  She nodded, but her eyes were shadowed with caution.

  In his mind, he had played this differently. She would be crying tears of joy, and he would have gently asked her why she had turned against him, but instead, she didn’t appear happy to see him. Instead of the gentle question, he stepped closer and put his hands on her shoulders. “Why, sister? Why did you betray me?”

  She shook her head in confusion. “What are you talking about?” She wore a sweater and skirt and that angered him also. Where was the traditional dress? Their mother had worn it her whole life, even here in America. He took a deep breath attempted to rein in his anger. At least Zaira hadn’t cut her hair and had it properly covered even if she didn’t wear the traditional hijab, but instead wore some kind of scarf. Perhaps all was not lost after all. Perhaps she would consent to helping him.

  Mohommad strode past her to the family room. Part of him hoped to see his nieces, but then he remembered they would be in school. A laptop was open on the breakfast bar, a glass of orange juice beside it, and the TV across the great room droned with an insipid daytime talk show. “You know what I’m talking about, Zaira.”

  She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “No, I don’t, dear brother. I have always been here for you, but you have not been there for me. Where were you when my husband died? I needed you, but you were so busy trying to impress the uncles who never cared for us when we were children, that you never even considered the difficulties I faced. You are the one who always flaunts tradition, but where were you when tradition called on you to take care of things?”

  The wind completely knocked out his sails, Mohommad stood with his mouth gaping before snapping it shut. She was right, but that still gave her no right to betray him. “You helped Mark Taylor.”

  Her eyes slid away for just a split second, but it was enough for Mohommad to realize the truth.

  “Am I not your brother, Zaira?”

  Zaira moved to the breakfast bar and closed the laptop. “You will always be my brother, but I hate what you’ve become. Mark wanted his camera back, and you had stolen it.”

  “You believed him?”

  She studied his face until he was hard-pressed not to squirm like a guilty little boy.

  “He was honest from the moment he came to the house, and I had no reason not to believe him.”

  Mohommad shook his head in disgust. “Do you know where he got the camera?”

  She shrugged.

  “From Afghanistan. He conned it from some old man in a bazaar. It rightfully belongs to our people, not some American. They already take everything from us. They bomb our homes and kill our children, and now they even steal our national treasures.”

  “An old man in a bazaar cannot be conned. Do you think I have forgotten how those men love to haggle?” Zaira leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. “I think you have also forgotten that I am American. You were American too.”

  Mohommad glared at her. “No longer.” He stalked to the sliding glass doors overlooking the backyard. An elaborate jungle gym took up a good portion of the space. He remembered pushing his older niece on the swing the last time he had been back there for some party. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Or like it had been another life entirely. He had been American back then, before his uncles had talked sense into him. Now he scorned all the trappings of American suburbia.

  His uncles would be proud of him and he would restore the pride in the family. Growing up, he had never realized that his father had been somewhat of a family outcast for moving to America.

  “Oh my goodness!”

  Mohommad turned from the window to find Zaira staring at the television. He followed her gaze. It was a breaking news report, and Mark’s picture graced the top left hand corner of the screen with the word, ‘Fugitive’, beneath it.

  The woman speaking seemed familiar, and he missed half of what she was saying as he tried to place her. The news report listed her as Special Agent Jessica Bishop, but the name meant nothing to Mohommad.

  It wasn’t until she spoke directly into the camera and said, “Mark Taylor, if you’re watching this, please turn yourself in. You will be treated fairly, we all guarantee it. We want to talk to you and give you a chance to tell your side of the story.” She emphasized ‘your side’ and sent an angry glance at the Chicago Police officer beside her. As she paused, he finally placed her. There had been photos of her in Mark’s loft when he went to retrieve the camera from him. Now it made sense to Mohommad when her voice cracked just a little when she continued, “But if you continue to evade police, we can make no guarantees.”

  Zaira made a small noise, like a stifled gasp, and he shot her a look. Her expression reflected her despair at the news. It didn’t surprise Mohommad. Women had always liked Mark, only half the time, his former friend had been oblivious. It rankled that even his sister had fallen under his spell.

  A news crawl across the bottom of the screen contained contact numbers and urged people to call if there were any sightings of the fugitive. Mohommad listened to the rest of the report and got the gist of it. Mark had run, and he could see that there was some kind of small restaurant behind Bishop. He recognized the area. At least he knew Mark’s last known location and that he was being hunted by the police. That was great news. A man on the lam wouldn’t have the time or resources to develop photos. That made Mohommad’s decision to move forward with the next phase of the plan even more imperative.

  * * *

  Jim stayed at the diner long after the police and Jessica had left. The police didn’t have the manpower to tie up so many officers when other areas of the city needed them, and Jessica had paperwork to do. She didn’t want to leave, but there was no reason for her to stay and she was low man on the totem pole. Other agents would cry foul if she got preferential treatment. Already he was sure someone would complain that she had been the agent in the limelight on the news. Jim found he didn’t give a shit what anyone said. Was this what burnout felt like? It was close to what he had felt when he had left his position as an interrogator.

  He ordered a cup of coffee to go and took it outside. There had to be something he had missed, and he sipped the hot brew as he surveyed the back parking lot again. Metal had flashed just as Mark had turned to look at Jessica. For a second, Jim’s own instinct had been to go for his weapon, and no doubt, it was what the police officer and Jessica had acted upon. Only something had dangled from his neck as it happened. It had been visible only for an instant, but Jim thought it might have been a camera.

  It was even more urgent that they find Mark.

  He was convinced he couldn’t be far away. A guy didn’t just vanish in front of a half-dozen officers.

  * * *

  Jim tried to concentrate on the report in front of him, but it was a routine budget analysis and his focus wandered. If his trip to Washington hadn’t put him behind, he would have let it slide another day or two. Instead of neat columns of numbers, in his mind, he saw the diner parking lot. He had itched to do his own search, not trusting the police, but DeMarcus had called and told him about the pile of messages waiting for
him. After returning the important ones, especially the one to his superior at Langley, he had tried to put it out of his mind. He had already called Chicago PD three times for an update on the search, but there had been no news. He was almost glad when DeMarcus buzzed him on the intercom. Anything had to be more interesting than the monthly budget crunch.

  “Sir, there’s a gentleman out here who says he needs to see you. I told him you were busy, but he insisted. Said he won’t go until he talks to you. Should I call security?”

  Jim stared at the intercom in puzzlement. It would take a fool to barge into a FBI field office and start making demands, especially to see the SAC. “Does he have identification?”

  “Yes. His name is Gene Taylor and—“

  Jim cut him off. “Send him right in, DeMarcus.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jim stood and took his suit coat off the back of his chair and shrugged into it, remaining on his feet as the door opened. He had never met Mark’s father but had remembered details of the man from reports he had read about Mark early on. The man who marched past DeMarcus was almost as tall as Mark, slightly stockier and had thick salt and pepper hair. He could see the resemblance to Mark immediately in the eyes, although Gene Taylor’s were darker, more hazel than green.

  Jim stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “Dr. Taylor, I’m Jim Sheridan. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Gene Taylor stared at Jim’s hand and for a moment, Jim flashed back to Mark’s release as an enemy combatant and how he had refused to shake Jim’s hand. Gene Taylor wore that same look of revulsion on his eyes, but after the hesitation, he clasped Jim’s hand in a firm shake. “I’m sorry the pleasure isn’t likewise, Special Agent Sheridan.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that because Mark has told me wonderful things about you, and I’m honored to finally make your acquaintance.” It was a stretch, as Mark wasn’t overly talkative about his father, but Jim recalled the emotional phone call Mark had made before the Wrigley Field incident. Whatever their differences, there was a connection between the father and son. “Please, have a seat.” He gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk before resuming his own seat behind the desk.

  “I’ll cut right to the chase. I’m worried about my son, and I need answers. I thought, given your past association with Mark, that you might have them.”

  “What is your concern, specifically?” Mark’s role as Jim’s asset was supposed to be confidential, but it sounded like Mark had shared the information with his parents.

  “I hope I won’t get Mark in more trouble, but he tried calling us today and sounded terrible. He called to tell me where he had parked my car, but—“

  “Your car?” This was an interesting bit of news. They had been assuming Mark had been without a mode of transportation that wasn’t public.

  Gene waved dismissively. “That’s not important. I loaned him my car a few days ago, and this morning, he calls and tells me the car is in the long term lot at O’Hare. So, I took a bus down here to come and get it. What concerns me is I found bloody napkins inside, and when he spoke to me this morning, he sounded…” His voice cracked, but Jim pretended not to notice and just waited for the other man to continue. Gene cleared his throat and finished, “He just sounded so exhausted. Beaten.”

  “Dr. Taylor, I’m not at liberty to discuss ongoing investigations—“

  Gene stood and leaned on the desk, his eyes rock hard as they bore into Jim’s. “Now look here, buddy. Don’t you dare go all official on me. You and I know exactly what role you’ve played in my son’s imprisonment, and how he was treated. I came to you because for whatever reason, Mark seemed to trust you, as crazy as that sounds.” He pointed his first two fingers at Jim in a stabbing motion. “You owe him.”

  Jim kept his voice low and calm when he replied, “Dr. Taylor, I certainly understand your feelings and concerns, but I assure you that I have no information. In fact, if you loaned Mark your car a few days ago, you’ve spoken to him much more recently than I have.”

  Gene sank back into the chair and raked a hand through his hair in a gesture that spoke of where Mark had picked up the habit. “My wife is frantic. The only reason she isn’t up here right now is because I sent her back to her sister’s house. I told her that Mark might try to call again, and she wouldn’t want to miss it.” He closed his eyes briefly and when he opened them, Jim almost flinched at the pain reflected in them. “Look, Mr. Sheridan…Jim, I’m going to be staying at The Blackstone for a few days. If you hear anything, would you please contact me?”

  “Of course, but before you leave, can you answer a few questions for me?”

  Wariness stole over Gene’s face. “That depends. Ask away, but I may not answer them.”

  “Fair enough.” Jim leaned his elbows on the desk, hands clasped, while he formed the questions in his mind. “Can you share anything that Mark told you when you saw him? Was he at your house or were you here?” Seeing the hesitancy in Gene’s expression, he added, “Unofficially. Believe it or not, I’m trying my best to find Mark so I can help him. Right now, I’m his best bet at getting all of this straightened out, but I can’t help him if he’s running away.”

  “He took a bus up to our place. We live just outside Madison, in a small town called—“

  “I have your address on file.” It sounded callous but Mark’s file contained all the standard information, and while Mark had been an asset, it was more than just intelligence information. It was for notifying next of kin in the event of injury or death, but Jim didn’t mention that part. “Did he say why he ran?”

  Gene rose and threw his arms wide. “Why he ran? Are you dense? Mark knew he was going to be arrested. He dreamed it.”

  Jim was only human and couldn’t hide his irritation at the slur. It wasn’t every day someone dared to call him dense. In his own office no less. When he thought of it that way, he almost smiled. In the last few years, he’d seen Mark becoming more outspoken but had assumed it was in response to all that had happened. Now he wasn’t so sure. Just possibly Mark’s attitude was genetic. “I suspected as much, but I was hoping for confirmation. Did he say what his plans were?”

  “He wanted to find that schmuck, Mohommad, and get his camera back so he could prove he gets future photos. Mark felt they would have to believe him if he had proof. He never had a chance to show anyone his camera after 9/11, and that didn’t turn out so well, now, did it?”

  “No, I agree. That wasn’t a good situation, but his running now just makes him look guilty. I can’t help him if he isn’t here. He needs to turn himself in, and instead of talking him into doing that, you lend him your car so he can get farther away.” More than a little worried that Mark had been badly injured this morning, Jim took his frustration out on Gene. He stood so he could be eye-to-eye and hoped to regain control of the conversation. “Frankly, he’s a grown man and needs to face his problems so we can get it taken care of.”

  Gene leaned forward and tapped a finger on the desk top for emphasis. “Damn straight he’s a grown man, and I’m proud as hell to call him my son, but he’s just that—my son, no matter how old he is, that’s how I’ll always think of him.”

  Jim nodded. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to imply that Mark had done anything you shouldn’t be proud of.” He gave a shake of his head, his anger draining as he let out a wry chuckle. “In fact, I know first-hand that you have every right in the world to be proud of your son. In other circumstances, he’d be receiving medals, but unfortunately, it’s complicated.” With a sigh, Jim pinched the bridge of his nose and organized his thoughts. Emotional outbursts always scrambled his ideas, and it was why he constantly strove to be cool and impersonal. Damn Taylors. First it was the son, and now the father. Letting his hand drop, he said, “I really just want to help Mark. I know he’s not guilty of the bombing, but if he’s not here, I’m going to have a difficult time convincing anyone else of his innocence.”

  Gene visibly relaxed, but he still wore a guar
ded expression. “I’m sorry if I’m questioning your motives. You say you want to help him, but you weren’t always in his corner, and from the little Mark confided to us recently, you had basically left him high and dry in regards to the camera. You never even looked for Mo, did you? You let the real terrorist run free but hound my son as though he’s Osama Bin Laden himself. Now you claim to want to help Mark, but what if you’re just trying to further your career by arresting Mark for the bombing attempt? That would look pretty damn good on your resume wouldn’t it?” He paused, his eyes drilling into Jim. “What is it you really want, Special Agent Sheridan? Or is it Officer Sheridan? What hat are you wearing today? CIA or FBI?”

  Ignoring the last question, Jim said, “I told you, Dr. Taylor. Believe it or not, in the last year, Mark and I have become pretty good friends, so this is personal for me too. Yes, Mark had the camera and was an intelligence asset, but once the camera was gone, I had no choice but to let him go. We talked it over and came to an understanding. In fact, I thought he was a little relieved to be rid of the camera. You have no idea how chaotic his day-to-day life was. The camera and resultant dreams basically controlled him, and he wasn’t free to do what he wanted.”

  Gene had the grace to nod in response to Jim’s observation as he sat back down. “You’re correct. Mark hasn’t had a normal life for a few years.”

  Jim also resumed his seat, leaning back with one ankle resting atop the other knee. He rubbed his chin in thought. “You said he had dreams though? Even without the camera?”

  “That’s what he told us. He said that he dreamed that he was going to be arrested in his loft. He woke up early, grabbed a few things and took a bus up to our house. Apparently he’d been stashing money at our house the last few years in case he needed to get away.”

  “Yes, that makes sense. We checked his accounts, and there hasn’t been any activity on them. Can you think of any other friends or relatives Mark might go to for help?”