“Here.”
“Thanks. We better get a couple of the towels beneath him. This is going to be messy.”
After helping to place the towels, Jim stepped back and watched, hoping Mark would wake up any second. What the hell had happened? While Mark hadn’t seemed totally with it back at the garage, he’d at least spoken and walked to the car. What if his skull was fractured?
After a head to toe examination, and cleaning the furrow on the side of Mark’s head, Gene straightened, wiping his hands with a clean, wet washcloth. “It’s hard to say for sure, but I don’t think it’s anything more than a concussion. He’s also moderately dehydrated, and that along with what I’m guessing was considerable blood loss, has him wiped out.”
Relieved, but puzzled, Jim said, “But I thought all head wounds bled a lot. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”
Gene shook his head. “It’s not a big deal in a minor injury. Even a tiny quarter inch cut can look like someone’s bleeding to death, but it usually stops quickly.” He tossed the cloth onto the stack of dirty clothes piled on one of the towels. “But, in this case, Mark’s been grazed by a bullet and has a two inch gash on the side of his head. Another couple of millimeters and we’d be discussing funeral arrangements.” Eyes narrowed, he continued, “I want to know why the hell my son was shot and what you know about it, but first, I have to stitch the wound shut while it’s still fairly fresh. The cut on his back too. I just hope I have enough supplies to close them both. Then, I’ll have to get Mark to drink something, preferably some kind of electrolyte solution.”
Jim nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll tell you the whole story, but what about Mark? Will he be okay?”
“I think so. If we can get some fluids in him, that is.”
“By electrolytes, do you mean something like a sports drink? I don’t have any on hand, but there’s a mini-mart just around the corner. I could get some and be back in less than ten minutes.”
“That would be perfect. Before you go, we need to turn him on his side and facing the back of the sofa so I can get to his injury.”
Mark roused when his father injected the numbing agent. Jim had to get on the end of the couch and reach over to hold Mark’s head still while Gene stitched.
“Hold still, Mark. I’ll be done in a few minutes.”
Jim felt a jolt course through Mark’s body when Gene spoke. Jim couldn’t see Mark’s face, but could sense that he was trying to look over his shoulder to see if the face matched the voice.
“Dad?”
Gene spoke again. “I’m here, son.”
Nobody spoke for a few seconds, and then Gene cleared his throat. “This reminds me of when you were about ten, and you crashed your bike trying to jump three garbage cans. Remember that?”
“Yeah.” The word was almost inaudible, but Jim caught it and smiled.
“Remember what you were doing that day, Mark? Can I tell Jim? I’m sure he’d get a kick out of it.”
Mark’s body shook, as though he was trying to suppress a cough, or, Jim noticed the corner of Mark’s eye crinkle, a fit of laughter.
“Don’t you dare.” Mark’s voice was stronger.
“You should have seen it, Jim. He and his friend—Paul, I think his name was—were re-enacting Fonzie’s jump of the barrels. Or was it the shark? I don’t remember, but Mark just about scared his mother to death when he came in with blood gushing down the side of his head.” Gene never looked up from his work, but Jim caught him blinking hard as he paused, the muscles of his jaw visibly tightening.
After a moment, he continued, his tone light, “She thought I should take him to the emergency room, but he was fine—just needed a few stitches. Just like today.” He snipped the last one and stepped back, nodding for Jim to release his hold.
Mark reached up to feel the wound and rolled onto his back. His eyes darted to his father and landed on Jim. “Where did you come from? How did you find me?”
Jim frowned. “Don’t you remember giving that man my card and asking him to call me?”
His brow furrowed in confusion, Mark stared at Jim, but finally, he gave a small shake of his head. “I don’t remember much of today. It’s all a blur.”
Gene put his instruments in one of the pans. “It’s a good thing you managed to contact Jim. You need some fluids.”
Grimacing, Mark rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know if I can drink something now. I’m thirsty, but my stomach’s kind of queasy.”
“If you drink it slow, you should be fine. If you don’t drink, the nausea will get worse, and then we’ll have to take you in to an ER for an I.V. I have just the basics in my bag. Lucky for you, I’d already stocked it for my upcoming hunting trip.”
Mark sighed and closed his eyes.
“I have one more needle for you.”
Mark’s eyes snapped open. “No…”
Gene pulled a vial and a syringe out. “Yep. I have to give you a shot of antibiotics. You really should have a course of I.V. antibiotics, but this will have to do.”
Not wanting to see yet another needle, Jim gathered up the scattered towels, piled them with the rest of the dirty linens and tossed them on the pile. “While you do that, I’m going to run and get the sports drink. I’ll be right back.” He thought Mark and his dad might need a moment to talk too. Jim picked up one of the pans. “If you’re done with this, I can empty it in the kitchen before I go. Just toss the towels and stuff in the hamper in the bathroom.”
“Yes, I’m finished. Get at least a few bottles of the drink.” Gene reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.
Jim passed him with the pan, ignoring the twenty Gene extended. “I got it.”
“You’re sure?”
He knew it shouldn’t, but the offer angered him. “Yes, I’m sure.” Jim emptied the pan and put it in the dishwasher. It crossed his mind to wonder if Mark and Gene would be here when he returned. Now was their chance. Gene would have a car, although he’d followed Jim’s advice and parked it around the corner, and if they left there wasn’t much Jim could do to stop them. Reporting them would implicate himself, and they were smart enough to realize that. Jim considered Mark’s state of mind. Well, at least Gene would realize it. At the moment, he wasn’t sure Mark even remembered why he was running.
Chances were slim that his condo was under surveillance, but just in case, Jim took a meandering route to the mini-mart, checking his mirror to see if he was being followed. He even doubled back to check to make sure no suspicious cars lurked about, watching his home. Satisfied that it was only his inherent caution and that there was no real threat of discovery, he didn’t rush into the mini-mart but instead, ambled in like he didn’t have a care in the world. After choosing a couple of flavors of sports drinks, he added some saltines to the purchase after recalling Mark’s upset stomach. As he passed the shelves stocked with pain relievers, he remembered that his bottle of ibuprofen was almost empty, so he grabbed a bottle of that too. Was ibuprofen okay to take with a concussion? Jim had no idea, and to be on the safe side, threw a bottle of acetaminophen along with a bottle of aspirin, into the hand basket.
As he waited for the few customers ahead of him to check out, Jim thought over the last few hours and tried to develop a plan. Mark couldn’t hide out forever at the house, but he wouldn’t be able to go home either. Somehow or another, they had to come up with a way to get Mark exonerated. One thing they had going for them was that the camera was back where it belonged.
* * *
Mark grit his teeth as the needle plunged into his thigh. His dad had given him a choice, leg or butt. It was really no choice at all. Once his dad finished, Mark lifted his hips off the sofa and pulled his jeans up and zipped them. The exertion caused his head to pound, and it was a few seconds before he heard his dad speaking.
“So, what happened to you? Do you remember?” His dad sat on the coffee table, hands planted on his knees, waiting.
Digging his elbows into the leather, Mark hitched
up higher on the couch until he was more comfortable. It would probably be easier to pretend amnesia, and truthfully, it wouldn’t be far from the truth. His memory of the last day was scattered at best. He remembered the fight with Mo and—Mark bolted upright, ignoring the dizziness, pain and nausea the action caused. “The camera? Where is it? I got it back from Mo.” He grabbed his head when he couldn’t ignore a spear of pain that lanced through his skull.
His dad’s hands were on his shoulders. “Lie back down. Your camera is right here. You had it around your neck when we carried you into the house.”
Mark slit his eyes. “You carried me in?” Oh God.
“You didn’t leave us any choice. You wouldn’t wake up.” His dad leveled a serious look at him. One of the looks he’d seen his dad use on patients. Mark squirmed under the scrutiny.
“What?”
“When I saw you slumped in Jim’s car, for an instant, I thought you were dead. I was ready to kill your buddy, Jim.”
“Sorry, Dad.” Mark sat up, disregarding his dad’s admonishment for him to lie down. “I’m not dead, but if I can’t get someone to believe that I had nothing to do with the ‘L’ bombing, I might as well be.” He scrubbed his hands down his face, wishing he could wipe away the brain fog. “I need to use the camera and then develop the film. Hopefully, something will show up, and I can show the police so they can see that the photos and dreams were the only connection I had to the bombs.”
“Mark, listen. I don’t know much about your camera, but I know you’re in no shape to go traipsing around taking photos. Do you have to be outside? Is there a secret to getting the future photos?”
“I don’t know about any secret to it. I just load the film and shoot. Often, I’ll get photos of something that wasn’t there when I took the picture. Then after I see the photo, or maybe it’s something in the camera…anyway, there’s some kind of connection between me and it—and yeah, I know that sounds strange, but it…it’s like it triggers something in me, and I dream about it.”
“Are you the only one it works for?”
Mark shook his head, but stopped immediately and swallowed as bile rose in the back of his throat. After the nausea subsided, he said, “Not really. It seems like anyone can take the pictures, but I think I’m the only one who gets the dreams. Why?”
“Well, what if I took some photos and had the film developed? You could rest here in the meantime.”
Mark raised an eyebrow. “Really? You’d do that?”
His dad shrugged and stood. “Of course I would. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Oh, I don’t know—maybe because you’ve always thought the camera and dreams were a bunch of baloney.” If he hadn’t felt so lousy, he might have succeeded in better masking the bitterness in his tone, but Mark was running on fumes, and it was all he could do to keep his eyes open, let alone try to phrase his response in a more neutral manner.
“I never said that. I just didn’t understand the whole concept. It’s not every dad who finds out their son has some kind of freakishly bizarre ability to see the future in a photograph.”
“True. I guess I never thought of it that way before.” Mark attempted a grin. “No wonder you’ve been so ornery around me the last few years.”
His dad raised his hand as though he was going to clap Mark on the shoulder, but at the last second, he must have thought better of it and instead, just patted Mark’s shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze. “I apologize for that, Mark. I guess I never really understood the magical part and all the implications, but I finally realized I don’t have to understand it. I just have to believe it exists.”
* * *
Jim returned, relieved to find Mark and Gene hadn’t taken off. He gathered a plate and a glass, and hanging onto the plastic handles of the bag, carried it all out to the living room. “I got some pain relievers, so take your pick, Mark.” Jim set everything on the coffee table and withdrew all three bottles of pain relievers and placed them in front of Mark. “I got some crackers too. I thought they might help your stomach.”
“Thanks.”
“Good thinking, Jim,” Gene said as he opened the blue sports drink and poured it into the glass. “It’s like you’ve done this before.”
Jim shrugged. “Kind of. My son had a concussion after taking a hard hit in football one season.”
Mark reached for the ibuprofen, but his hand stalled halfway there. “Son? You have a son? How come you’ve never mentioned him before?”
“There are a lot of things I don’t mention, Mark.”
Mark shook his head. “You’re the master of secrets.”
“What do you expect? I am CIA after all,” Jim said, his tone dry.
“And I suppose your son is classified information?” Mark opened the bottle of ibuprofen, shook three out, and grasped the glass of sports drink, downing the pills in one swallow.
“No, not classified, but I try to keep my personal life separate from my work.” Jim picked up the box of crackers and tugged at the corner of the cardboard flap. He scowled as the box ripped. Pulling a sleeve of crackers out, he set the box down and the tore open the sleeve and swore under his breath when a couple of crackers popped out and onto the floor. “We don’t see each other much. Not after his mother and I divorced.”
Gene handed him the plate. “Where’s your son now?”
“What is this? Twenty questions?” He dumped a dozen crackers on the plate and set it down with a clatter.
“Christ. I was only asking out of mild curiosity. It’s not like I’m going to go extract retribution on him for what you’ve done to my son in the past.”
Jim bristled. “My son and his whereabouts are nobody’s business. For all I know, that’s exactly what you’re planning on doing.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, a wave of shame washed over him. Gene Taylor was no threat and Jim felt like an idiot for implying that he was, but pride and habit kept him from apologizing.
“Dad…” Mark rose and put himself between his father and Jim when Gene took a menacing step towards Jim. “Calm down.”
Gene had a hand on Mark’s chest to nudge him out of the way, but his nudge sent Mark stumbling sideways as his foot caught on the leg of the coffee table. Both Jim and Gene reacted, reaching out and grasping the arm nearest to them. Between the two men, they steadied Mark.
Mark shrugged them off, glaring first at Jim and then his father. A flash of pain crossed his face, and he lifted a hand to his temple before resuming his seat on the couch. “On second thought, have at it guys.” He waved his hand towards the middle of the living room. “Duke it out if you want. I’m…I’m just going to lie down for a few minutes.” With that, he swung his legs up on the sofa and reclined, his eyes closing as he slurred, “It would be…great if you took the fight away from the couch though. I can’t promise I won’t puke on the carpet if you knock into it while you’re beating the crap out of each other. You’ve been warned.”
Jim felt the corner of his mouth twitch as his gaze moved from an apparently already sleeping Mark, to Gene. The other man looked at Jim, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish expression on his face. Jim was sure his own mirrored it. “Listen, Gene…I’m sorry. That was stupid of me to say that. My son is a sore spot with me, and I guess I let my anger at that situation color my reaction.”
Gene pulled an afghan off the back of the sofa and draped it over Mark. “I know the feeling.”
Jim bent and retrieved the dropped crackers. Straightening, he said, “Possibly, but I think only another divorced parent could truly understand.” From Mark’s bio, he knew his parents had been married a long time. They had never had a custody battle. Gene might think he knew how it felt to lose custody of his son, but unless it happened to him, he’d only be guessing. The day Jim had signed the custody agreement had been the most difficult in his life.
“It’s true that I never had to deal with divorce and all the crap that comes with it, but Mark and I have ha
d our share of differences, and then he was…gone.” The last word sounded strangled, and the muscles of Gene’s throat worked.
Jim looked away and busied himself with gathering the unused pain relievers and the unopened extra bottle of sports drink off the table. He stuffed them back in the bag and tucked the torn box of crackers under his arm. “Yeah, I guess we never know what someone else is going through.”
Gene cleared his throat and topped off Mark’s drink before following Jim into the kitchen. “That was the worst thing. We couldn’t talk to anyone about it.”
Jim didn’t want to hear this. How would he ever do his job if every time he questioned a suspected terrorist, he’d be picturing a grieving mother and father wondering where their son was? It wasn’t his fault Mark had been arrested, and he’d only been doing his job when he questioned Mark. So why did he feel so guilty?
Jim shoved the crackers in the cupboard and left the pain relievers on the counter in case they were needed again. “It was a difficult time for everyone.” There. He had acknowledged Gene without admitting to any wrongdoing. He took the opened bottle of sports drink from Gene and set it on a shelf in the fridge. While he was there, he grabbed a can of beer and lifted another towards Gene in offering. Coffee would be a better choice, so they could keep their heads clear, but one beer wouldn’t hurt them, and they needed something stronger than coffee. Too bad he didn’t have any Scotch on hand.
Gene took the beer and sat at Jim’s kitchen table, popped it open and took a long swig. “I’ll tell you what though. We found out who our true friends were, and the list wasn’t nearly as long as I’d expected it to be. Norma, Mark’s mom,” he motioned with the beer towards the living room, “and I had a rough time. Thought we were going to get divorced, but we hung on, and then he came home.” He took another swallow and played with the ring on the top of the can.
Jim sat across from Gene and opened his own beer. The role he’d played in Gene and his wife’s difficulties wasn’t lost on him, so he just sipped his beer and let the other man fill the silence.
Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series) Page 83