Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series)

by M. P. McDonald

  Eyes narrowing, Gene replied, “I thought you knew everything there was to know about Mark. You know…in the file?”

  Jim felt heat rush up his face but whether it was anger or embarrassment, he wasn’t even sure. “The file stops pretty much at Mark’s release. We didn’t keep tabs on his personal life after that. What I know about him was learned only as a friend.”

  Gene shook his head. “I’m concerned. I mentioned the bloody napkin right? Could he be in a hospital somewhere?”

  “One thing I can confirm is that Mark was sighted this morning, and at the time, he appeared okay. Unfortunately, we lost him after that, which was why I was hoping you’d know of someone he might turn to.”

  “Then you should know about his ex-girlfriend, Jessica Bishop. He was close to her, and I think they’re still on friendly terms. She’s a Chicago detective though, so she might be the last person he’d approach.”

  Jim cleared his throat. “Actually, she’s an agent here now.”

  “Ah. Well, then, that’s it. I don’t think he’d go to her. He’s probably tracking down Mohommad alone, unless you can find someone who can lead you to Mo. If you do, you’ll probably find my son.”

  Not wanting to worry Dr. Taylor, Jim didn’t mention the encounter earlier in the day. The blood they’d found could just be a minor cut. After all, he had escaped yet again. If he’d been hurt badly, he would have been lying in that parking lot instead of vanishing into thin air. It had been Jim’s hope Mark would have some other friend that no one else was aware of. Some childhood friend that only parents would know.

  Jim stood and stuck out his hand, effectively ending the meeting. “If I hear anything, I’ll contact you at the Blackstone. You have my word on that, Dr. Taylor.”

  “Gene. You might as well call me Gene.”

  Jim nodded. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you finally.” And he meant it. Even if he and the older man had exchanged harsh words, he respected Mark’s father.

  “I look forward to hearing from you.”

  Chapter 21

  “Hey!”

  Mark started awake. Disoriented, he turned his head and came face to face with an old man peering at him through the side car window. He jerked away from the door, his heart slamming against his ribs as he pressed into the seat. Casting a wild look around the interior of the car, he had no idea where he was or whose car he occupied. His head throbbed, making thought next to impossible, and the effort exhausted him.

  The man rapped his knuckles against the glass and said, “I don’t know who in blazes you are, but if you don’t hightail it out of here, I’m gonna call the cops.”

  Police? Not good, although the reason why escaped him at the moment. “No, it’s okay. I’m going.” He touched the side of his head, just above his ear, wincing. His hand came away sticky with blood which he wiped on his jeans. “Jus…just give me a second.” His stomach did a flip, and he had to swallow. His memory of how he came to be in the car filtered into his muddled mind in a series of non-sequential images. A garbage truck, a diner and he vaguely recalled scrambling on top of a box truck. Cops had been there too, and that memory came with a jolt of panic. Jim and…Jessie…and… a gunshot. Shit! They had shot at him. Was that the source of his injury? Mark pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. If only he could think through this splitting headache. He gave up the effort to remember. Right now, he had to get out of the car before the old guy followed through on his promise to call the police.

  As Mark grabbed for the door handle, something clanked against the steering wheel. The camera! By some miracle, it still hung around his neck—maybe there was still a chance he could escape from this mess.

  “I mean it, mister. Get outta my car!”

  Mark opened the door. “I’m sorry, sir. I…I’ll be going.” He stepped out but had to lean heavily on the door as the garage did a slow loop-de-loop around him. Head hanging, he squeezed his eyes shut until the spinning relented.

  “What’s the matter with you? Ya got blood on your head.”

  “Just bumped it, I guess. Sorry. I hope I didn’t stain the seat.”

  The old guy broke out laughing and slapped a hand on the hood of the vehicle. “This jalopy hasn’t run in years. I ain’t worried about the seats. I only keep this old clunker because my son wants me to get rid of it, and I don’t like taking orders from him.”

  Mark tried to block out the rambling as the man’s voice sent shards of pain slicing through his head. He closed the car door but found that without something to hang onto, his knees buckled.

  “Whoa there, buddy.” Surprisingly strong hands caught Mark under his arms and eased him down to sit with his back against the car. The cold of the metal felt good against the back of his head, but made him shiver. “Just sit tight. I’m gonna call 911.”

  “No! I’m fine.” Mark grabbed onto the man’s arm. “Please, don’t call.” He reached up for the door handle, grateful that the car had the older handles that stuck out from the door. Pulling with all his strength, he managed to get upright again.

  “Well, somebody’s gotta come and help you. I don’t drive no more, so I can’t take you to the hospital. Besides, what if you die in here? A possum died in here one winter, and I didn’t find him for months—not until he started stinking up the place. I found his carcass right underneath here.” He thumped the hood of the car again, the sound blasting through Mark’s head. He cringed and put two fingers to each temple. If the old geezer did that again, Mark was going to have to hurt him. “The thing was half-rotted by then and stunk up the whole garage. I don’t want to have to clean your remains out of here next spring.”

  Mark tried to think past the pain and fog that shrouded his brain. “Yeah, that probably wouldn’t be a good thing.”

  “You got anyone I can call for you? A friend or someone?”

  “Um…” If he hadn’t felt like vomiting, he would have laughed at the question. The whole reason he was in the predicament was because of his so-called friends. His knees wobbled when the garage renewed its rotation around him. If he didn’t give an answer to this old man soon, the next time he woke up, he’d be in jail. He had to make a plan. Running was out of the question. With the way he felt, he wouldn’t get ten feet before collapsing, and if that happened, the old guy would have to clean up his rotting carcass in the spring after all. His mouth turned up in a ghost of a smile. That would teach the guy to bang on the car. Organizing his thoughts into a cohesive plan was like trying to wade through quicksand. The faster he tried to think, the worse his head hurt. “Yeah, I have someone.”

  Okay. He had the camera now, so he didn’t really need to run. Getting a future picture had been his goal, but he was going to need help to get it now. The only person who might give him half a chance was Jim. At least he believed the camera existed, and he had the power to get others to listen. Jessie might have helped while she was with the police, but with her new position with the FBI, he knew she wouldn’t have the authority to help him.

  He reached for his wallet when his attempts to extract Jim’s phone number from his memory resulted in a wave of nausea. Struggling to focus in the dim garage, Mark fished around in the billfold until he found one of Jim’s cards and handed it to the man. His voice felt as thick as molasses, and his tongue a couple of sizes too big for his mouth as he said, “Here. Call this number and ask for Jim Sheridan. Tell him the call is from Mark.” He paused to take a breath, then added, “He’ll come by or send someone.” Probably with a bunch of his FBI friends in tow, but Mark didn’t add the last bit. The game was up and a surge of anger gave him a dose of energy, making him contemplate escaping again, but as quickly as it hit him, the adrenaline dissipated. His only hope would be that he’d be given a chance to demonstrate the camera to authorities before they locked him up.

  The man held the card up, an arm’s length from his face and squinted at the print. “Special Agent in Charge, Jim Sheridan?” His mouth hung open for a second or two. “You didn�
�t like my idea to call 911, but you think calling the FBI is a better one?”

  “He’s a friend. Sort of.” It occurred to him he had no idea how long he’d been in the garage. He’d been at the diner in the morning. “What time is it?”

  “About two o’clock.” He grinned and raised the card a fraction. “I never called the FBI before. I’ll be right back.”

  Mark attempted to roll his eyes at the old man’s enthusiasm, but the motion made him retch. He leaned against the car, and slid down until he plopped onto the cold cement again.

  It seemed he’d only just sat down when someone shook his arm. “Mark! Wake up!”

  “Huh?” Mark opened his eyes to find himself on his side on the floor with no memory of lying down. Jim squatted beside him, gripping Mark’s upper arm. “Jim? How’d you get here so fast?”

  “Fast? It’s been at least thirty minutes since Mr. Dudek called me. I got caught in traffic.”

  “Mr. Dudek?” Mark struggled to a sitting position. His headache hadn’t subsided at all. If anything, he felt worse. He gripped the sides of his head, his elbows braced on his bent knees as he squeezed his eyes shut when the pain intensified.

  “Mr. Dudek is the gentleman who owns this garage, and I promised him I’d remove you from it before his son gets home. So, let’s see if you can stand, okay?”

  “Okay,” Mark agreed, but made no move to get up. He took a deep breath and concentrated on sending the command to rise from his brain to his legs, but the signal seemed to short out before it reached its destination.

  “Today, Mark.” Jim’s grip tightened on Mark’s arm, and tugged until Mark was forced to use his legs to lever himself upright.

  “Good…good. Whoa. Put your arm over my shoulders. Mark? Open your eyes and listen up!”

  He hadn’t known he’d closed his eyes, but they snapped open at Jim’s command. “Sorry. Kind of dizzy.”

  “Yes, I know. You have quite a gash on your head, but you’re going to be fine.”

  “Okay.” Jim said it, so it must be true. The guy was always right.

  “Just walk along here with me. I’ll go slow, but if we don’t get going soon, Mr. Dudek is threatening to call an ambulance. I told him I’d take you to the hospital, but if you can’t get to my car, I might have to go along with Mr. Dudek’s plan.”

  Mark shuffled beside Jim but balked at the mention of a hospital trip. “I can’t go to the hospital. They’ll call the cops.”

  Jim snorted. “I can’t believe I’m agreeing with you, but for now I am, so get your ass in gear.”

  It felt like the walk was miles as they made their way through the backyard to a narrow walkway alongside the house. Mark blinked in an attempt to widen the tunnel of vision he peered through. “Where’d you park?”

  “On the street in front. I was afraid of blocking the alley and drawing attention, but I think I should have risked it now. Just keep moving. You’re doing fine. That’s it.”

  Mark stumbled when his foot landed on the edge of the walkway, and his sore ankle gave out. Jim pulled him up, but the sudden movement was too much for Mark’s stomach. He shoved away from Jim and, with one hand on the wall of the house, leaned over and vomited into a bunch of yellowing and wilted day lilies. His skull threatened to explode, and as if from a distance, he heard Jim speaking, but it was too much effort to decipher the words. He tried to spit the taste out, but his mouth was too dry. “Sorry. Tell Mr. Du…Dude…” He forgot the man’s name. Damn it. “The old man. Tell him I’m sorry I puked on his plants.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just a little farther.”

  Finally, they made it to the car and Mark climbed in, barely noticing when Jim strapped the seat-belt over him. When the car began moving, he groaned.

  “You’re not going to be sick again, are you?”

  Mark almost laughed at the panic in Jim’s voice. “No. Nothing left.” He tried closing his eyes, but that just seemed to make the dizziness worse, so he kept them opened a slit and fixed his gaze out the front window.

  The car swerved suddenly and Mark had to close his eyes and swallow hard. Jim’s voice droned, but Mark had the impression he was speaking to someone else, especially when Jim gave out his own address and then said a curt good-bye. Mark was sure that when they reached their destination someone would be waiting for him with a fresh set of handcuffs.

  He didn’t dare turn his head, but he managed to ask, “What’s going on?” He knew he should care, but he just couldn’t summon the energy. “I suppose you’ll send me back to the brig.” The window felt cool against the side of his head as he slumped against the door.

  “The brig? Not if I have any say, but don’t worry about that now. I’m taking you to my place. I have someone meeting me there who can help you. I hope.”

  Questions formed in his mind, but he forgot them almost as soon as they took shape. Frustrated, Mark gave up and just tried to keep from vomiting in Jim’s car. He didn’t want to give the man any reason to change his mind and lock him up.

  Chapter 22

  Jim clenched the steering wheel, his knuckles white. What he was doing could cost him his career or worse, and his common sense screamed at him to take Mark into official custody. All his life, he’d done things by the book and for the most part, that strategy had worked for him. This one time, he closed his ears to the pleading of his common sense and listened to his gut. The damn book didn’t have a chapter that dealt with guys who could see the future. Jim supposed one day he’d be an expert and could write that chapter, but until then, he was forced to improvise.

  He took the turn onto his street as slowly as possible, noting Mark’s occasional moan when the car would jolt over a pothole or turn at a normal speed. About halfway to Jim’s house, Mark had closed his eyes, and now, his head lolled. Only the groans indicated he had any awareness at all.

  What if Dr. Taylor assessed Mark’s condition and concluded that it was serious and Mark needed to go to a hospital? There was no way to hide him as a patient. Not unless Jim outright lied and came up with a phony ID, but even if he might consider going to that extreme, he didn’t have any fake IDs close at hand. If he was still strictly CIA, he would have been more prepared for this kind of contingency. It was the one time he regretted taking this job instead of taking a different position offered at the same time. Jim vowed he would do what he could to protect Mark, but once everything became official, those blasted rules had to be followed. Jim glanced at Mark and said, “You better damn well be okay.”

  After pulling his car into the garage, he jumped out, calling over his shoulder for Mark to sit tight, and he’d be right back. Mark didn’t budge. The door into the kitchen opened as Jim reached for it. Startled, his hand instinctively went to his gun. “I see you found the key I told you about.” Gene stepped out, gave Jim a sharp glance, but ignored the comment as he barreled past him and around the car to Mark’s side.

  “What did you do to him? He looks terrible,” he said, as he opened the car door and Mark tumbled out. Only Gene’s quick action of grabbing the collar of Mark’s coat prevented Mark from smashing face first onto the cement floor of the garage.

  “I didn’t do anything. This is how I found him.” Jim rounded the car, as Gene tried to get between Mark and the interior of the door in order to gain some leverage to hold Mark’s weight. Jim reached under Mark’s arms and locked his own hands across Mark’s chest, supporting him. “Come on, Mark. We’re here. Time to wake up.”

  Mark batted at Jim’s hands, but only a few times before his head sagged forward and his arm flopped to the side.

  Jim sighed, worried about how unresponsive Mark had become. “We’re going to have to carry him.”

  Gene took his son’s legs, and between the two men, they managed to get Mark as far as the couch in the living room.

  Out of breath, Jim attempted to set Mark down gently, but his back protested and instead, he dropped Mark unceremoniously onto the sofa. Gene glared at Jim. Bent with one hand on the
small of his back, Jim just returned the glare, too out of breath to do more, but it was on the tip of his tongue to point out that the end he had carried was a lot heavier. A moment later, he straightened, wincing at the lingering spasm. A second later he was wincing again, this time in sympathy as Gene rubbed his knuckles hard against the center of Mark’s chest. Mark groaned and mumbled something as he swatted his dad’s hand away.

  “That’s it, Mark. Open your eyes.” Gene removed a small penlight from an old-fashioned doctor’s bag. Jim didn’t think those kind of bags really existed, but this one was worn enough that it looked like it received frequent use.

  Shining the light into Mark’s eyes, he frowned but said nothing, although he seemed pleased when Mark turned his head away. “At least he’s reacting to the light.” He took another instrument out of the bag and checked Mark’s ears. The right only took him a moment, but he cursed as he tried to peer into Mark’s left ear.

  “What? What’s wrong? Is he okay?”

  Gene raised an eyebrow. “Does he look okay to you?”

  “Well…no, but he spoke to me earlier and was somewhat alert.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.” Gene straightened and set the instrument on the coffee table. “His pupils are a little sluggish, but equal, and that’s a good sign. I’m trying to check for signs of skull fracture, but the whole side of his head is just caked in blood, and of course, some of it ran into his ear. I can’t tell if he has cerebral spinal fluid in his ears or if it’s just blood from the head wound.”

  Jim looked down at his hands, finding red smears on them as well as more blood on the left sleeve of his suit coat. “I’ll get some towels and water.”

  Gene nodded. “That would be great. Thank you.”

  Glad to be of some use, Jim practically flew to the linen closet and grabbed the first three towels and all the washcloths he had. He set them on a chair in the living room before racing to the kitchen for a couple of pans of water.