“Norma never doubted Mark. Not for an instant.” Gene plucked at the ring now, the metallic twang the only sound in the room.
“But you did?” Jim had to ask to confirm the silent implication.
Gene lifted one shoulder. “I didn’t want to, but…the government wouldn’t make an arrest unless they had plenty of evidence. Right?”
Jim shifted in his chair and took a gulp of his beer.
Gene chuckled. “Yes, I know that sounds incredibly naïve. I was in college during the Vietnam War. Hard to believe I’d forgotten some of the lessons I’d learned back then.” He shrugged. “But as you get settled, have a family and build a career, you don’t focus on the outside world. You trust the government to do the right thing.”
“I go by Fox Mulder’s advice.” Jim couldn’t resist and wanted to steer the conversation away from politics. “Trust no one.”
Gene laughed and shook his head. “That was one show that both Mark and I enjoyed. He’d already moved out by then, but when he’d come home on a weekend, we’d watch it.” Tilting the can, he emptied it. “And now, we’re living an X-File.”
Jim almost choked on his beer as a laugh erupted without warning. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Does that make me Fox Mulder? I am working for the FBI after all.”
“I suppose it does.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments. Gene stood up, turned in a half circle until he spotted the garbage can in the corner and tossed his can in.
“I have a few more cans of beer in there. Help yourself.”
“No, I’m good.” He returned to his chair. “You know, I really am sorry about the scene in there. It’s none of my business, but, like I said, one of the hardest things when Mark was gone was not being able to talk to anyone.”
Jim’s impulse was to brush off Gene’s unspoken invitation, but after hearing Gene’s confession about how the stress had almost cost him his marriage and how he’d harbored some doubt about Mark, he decided he was making a bigger deal of it than it was. “There’s not much to say, really. My son’s name is Chris, and his mom and I divorced about five years ago. He was a sophomore in high school.” Jim shook his can, less than half left. “I was gone for my work a lot back then. Sometimes out of the country for months at a time. My ex-wife couldn’t take it anymore and divorced me. I wanted to be there for Chris, but not long after that, 9/11 happened, and my workload tripled. I was back in the States, but shortly after the divorce, I was transferred from Virginia—where I was based when not out of the country—down to Charleston. At times, I would have to go to Guantanamo or even Afghanistan. I didn’t get to see much of Chris. Just a few times a year. He’s in college now and wants nothing to do with me. End of story.”
“That’s rough.” There was no condescension in the statement. “I’m a bit of a workaholic too, so I didn’t get to spend as much time with Mark as I wanted when he was growing up. He went to college as pre-med, and although it might not be apparent, he’s a smart guy. Pulled A’s in class without breaking a sweat, but he had zero interest in medicine. He only went in as pre-med at my insistence, but all he wanted to do was take pictures. I was angry, and even a little bit envious. I struggled through college, and here he could have sailed through and he didn’t want to. I was so frustrated.”
“Chris is studying theater.” Jim finished off the beer and tossed it into the can from where he sat.
Gene threw his head back and laughed. “I hope you don’t use that tone when you speak to your son about his major.”
“What tone?”
“You might as well have said he was studying shit.”
“Is that how it sounded?” Jim replayed his comment in his head. Did Chris hear it like that too?
“You know what? Reach out to Chris and ask him about theater and listen to his reply. You might find that you haven’t lost your son at all.” Gene placed his hands on the table and stood. “And speaking of sons, I’m still waiting to find out what exactly happened today that almost cost mine his life.”
The reprieve over, Jim considered his reply. “A report came in to the Chicago P.D. of a sighting of Mark in a house that was just foreclosed on. It seems he spent the night there. It was bad timing on his part, as today was the scheduled day the Cook County Sheriff had to evict anyone still living there. The sheriff showed up with a representative of the mortgage broker, and Mark ran past them and leaped out a broken window into the backyard. I think that’s how he cut his back, by the way. We found a ripped and bloody shirt in the backpack he abandoned at the diner. Anyway, police were on alert and an off-duty cop spotted him in the men’s room of the diner. He called police. We picked it up on the scanner and took a run over there at the same time.”
“That doesn’t explain the gunshot wound.”
“Unfortunately, Mark bolted out the backdoor of the diner. The cops split up, some going around the back and some going through the diner. The guys who went around back saw Mark climb up on a box truck parked out there, ready to drop over the fence into the neighboring lot. At that time, Jessica Bishop and I were exiting the back of the diner as well. It all happened so fast, but piecing it together, Mark froze when he saw us. He reached for the camera just before he jumped for the fence, and the officers thought he was reaching for a gun. One of them fired his weapon just as Mark cleared the fence. I have to admit, I thought I’d find his body on the other side, but when we got there, he was gone. I still haven’t learned how he did it, but he managed to get a few blocks away and entered an unlocked garage and slept in an old car in there. The homeowner went out to the garage to ‘tinker’ as he described it, and found Mark sleeping. He called me after Mark gave him my number.”
“So you didn’t shoot him?”
“No. I didn’t have my weapon out, but let’s be clear on this—I would have been following procedure if I’d had my weapon in my hand.” Jim waited a beat, then added, “Special Agent Bishop followed protocol.”
“Jessica Bishop?” Gene’s mouth set in a hard line.
“That’s correct, but she never fired her sidearm.”
“How generous of her.”
“It was, actually. If she’d fired at him, she most likely would have been cleared in the subsequent investigation. You have to realize that Mark was fleeing from not just Chicago Police, but the FBI as well. That sudden movement and glint of metal was enough to trigger reflexes when adrenaline is running high. We may know he’s innocent of wrongdoing, but to others, his running made him look guilty as hell.”
“After what happened to Mark before, can you blame him for running?”
“I’m not saying he had an alternative. I’m just stating the facts as they appeared to the others in that parking lot.”
Gene didn’t appear placated, but after giving Jim a long, hard stare, he simply said, “I’m going to check on Mark, and then I’m going to go out and try to take a few pictures with Mark’s camera. We thought it might work for me. He’s going to present it as proof that he’s been telling the truth all along.”
“That sounds like a plan. I’m going to check in with my office. See if there’s anything going on that I’m missing. I pretty much abandoned work when I got the call about Mark.”
Chapter 23
Jessie tried to concentrate on the meeting, but all she could think about was Mark’s face when he’d turned to see her at the back door of the diner. His eyes had been wide in surprise—or fear, she wasn’t sure which. Maybe it was both. Then there had been the gunshot and he’d dropped from sight. It had been hours and nobody had reported any sightings. How could he have just disappeared?
Suddenly she realized the meeting had ended and the other agents were standing, stretching and chatting. Still the new agent on the block, she gathered her notes, and headed towards the door. An agent whose name slipped her mind approached her, a smirk turning up the corner of his mouth.
“So, how did you manage to get picked?”
She crossed
her arms. “Picked? What are you talking about?” Simon. That was his name, only she couldn’t remember if it was his first or last name. Maybe his first name was Simple. Yeah, Simple Simon. Okay, that wasn’t fair. The guy wasn’t stupid, but his attitude annoyed her.
“First, Sheridan puts in a good word for you to get hired, and then just a few weeks later, you’re chosen to go along to arrest the most wanted fugitive in Chicago? To top it off, you then hold a press conference.”
How much should she mention? Would it be better to keep her relationship to Mark a secret or would they feel better knowing that she’d only been given the assignment this one time because of the special circumstances? His smirk bugged her. “First of all, there are special circumstances. I have some information about the fugitive that I acquired as a detective with the CPD. In light of that knowledge, I’ve been asked to work on the case. As far as the press conference goes, it wasn’t a conference, it was just a couple of words to the press, who had already gathered. We didn’t call them or anything. I know the local press, and Ji—Director Sheridan thought it might be better for me to speak to them and keep it low key than for him to answer questions.”
“Ah, so you’re on a first name basis with Sheridan? How’d you manage that? The guy is the most distant and cold director I’ve ever worked under. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him crack a smile. That’s how those CIA guys are. They think they’re too good for us.”
“If I was interested in your opinion about the director, I’d have asked for it, Simon.” She brushed by him, tossing over her shoulder as she passed, “Besides, I look better on TV than the director.”
At least Simon laughed at that and it didn’t even sound mocking. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.
Back at her desk, she dropped the notes and checked her voicemail. Please let there be some information about Mark. Her shoulders slumped. Nothing. Just a message about a meeting for the next day that had been re-scheduled. She thought there would be more messages as immediately after the press conference had aired, the phone began ringing off the hook. Those were the notes she’d shared at the meeting. So far, none sounded too promising, but it had been just such a tip from someone at the diner that had led them to Mark this morning. As her finger lingered on the number to erase the message, the phone rang, making her jump. “Special Agent Bishop speaking.”
“Agent Bishop? Are you the one I saw on the news this morning?”
Jessica tried not to sound impatient. After twenty such calls, it was difficult to do. The switchboard tried to filter calls, but if they were in doubt, they sent callers through. “Yes, how can I help you?” The caller, a woman, had a light accent, possibly Middle Eastern. Jessie sat and pulled a pen from her pen cup.”
“I’m not sure how to go about this, but I spoke to Mark Taylor a few days ago—”
“Where? May I get your name?” Callers didn’t always want to be identified, but she hoped this one would. The tone spoke of hesitancy, and Jessie had heard the same hesitancy in enough informants’ voices to recognize it as reluctance usually expressed by someone close to a suspect.
“My name is Zaira Saleem, but my maiden name is Aziz. My brother is Mohommad Aziz.”
Jessie almost dropped the phone. None of the news reports had listed Mohommad as wanted. “I’m listening.”
“Two days ago, Mark Taylor came to my house looking for my brother. I don’t know if you know about my brother, but he and Mark used to be friends. I know my allegiance should be to my brother, but he stole something very important from Mark
“Go on. What was it he stole?” If she said camera, then Jessie would know it was a legitimate call.
“Mark said Mohommad stole a camera…a special one…and that he needed it back so he could prove that he had nothing to do with the attempted ‘L’ bomb.”
“That’s correct. And you think Mark was looking for Mohommad to get his camera back?”
“I know he was.”
“And did you tell him where your brother was? From my intelligence reports, your brother should be living in a village in Afghanistan. That’s quite a distance for Mark to go to retrieve a camera.”
“My brother is in the U.S. He’s right here in Chicago.”
Jessie closed her eyes and let out a deep breath. Finally, they had a witness who could place Mohommad here in Chicago. She’d always believed Mark, but without a witness, there was no way to prove his claim that Mo was here. “What is he doing in Chicago?”
Zaira hesitated.
“If you know something, you’re obligated to tell us. If you don’t, and something happens, you’re just as culpable.”
“I understand, but that’s not it. I just don’t know exactly what my brother is planning, just that I think he has something big in the works. He wants to impress our uncles back in Afghanistan.”
“What kind of plan? Like an act of terrorism?”
“I don’t know, but he’s here and he’s angry.”
“Are you afraid of him?”
“Not for myself, but he was so full of hatred. I’d given Mark a notebook with names and addresses of Mohommad’s friends, but the list was old. I was asked to compile it when he was arrested after September 11th, but then nobody ever came to collect it.”
“And…?”
“Well, apparently Mark found him yesterday and got his camera back. Mohommad said it didn’t matter. He’d be able to carry out his mission even without the camera. It was only going to be used for insurance, but now it’s almost like he’s counting on Mark to try and stop him.”
“Do you have any idea where your brother might be now?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t. I’m not sure why I even called as I don’t know where anyone is now. I saw on the news that Mark escaped this morning. I can’t say I’m unhappy about that.”
“Really? And why would you feel that way? He’s wanted in connection to the attempted L bombing.”
“He told me he didn’t do it and I believe him. In fact, he told me about his magic camera and how he had a dream about the bombing, and was able to help stop it.”
Jessica hated it, but she had to play the skepticism role. These calls were recorded. “That’s what he tried telling us too, but it’s just a bit far-fetched, don’t you think?”
Zaira must have sighed, as there was sudden sound of air rushing over the receiver. “I suppose it does sound that way, but how hard would it be to put out a message with the media telling Mark that you know he now has the camera and can turn himself in and the camera can be tested.”
“Well, I’m not sure about testing the camera, but I do appreciate the tip on your brother. Although he’s not wanted in connection with this case, he shows up in my database as banned from the country, so your encounter with him does back up Mark Taylor’s claim that Mohommad was back in the country.”
“Will that help Mark’s case?”
Jessie shrugged, but realizing the other woman couldn’t see the gesture through the phone, finally said, “It couldn’t hurt.”
She ended the call a few minutes later after getting Zaira’s address and phone number. Now what? Where was Mark? He had the camera, so why didn’t he come forward? It would be a simple matter to prove the future photos. Jessie had no doubt about that, but why had he run this morning? Why had he risked being shot?
* * *
Mark squinted up at the white ceiling, trying to gather his wits. He recognized Jim’s living room and the day’s events rushed back to him. Rubbing his forehead, he took mental inventory. The headache was still present, but not as all-encompassing as earlier, and he could at least remember most of what had happened since he’d run out of the abandoned house. Was that just this morning? The shades were pulled, but other than a square of light splashed across the carpet from the kitchen, the room was dark. It could have been early evening or middle of the night for all Mark knew. His mouth tasted like old wood ashes and his first goal was to get something to drink. He risked sitting, arms braced as he teeter
ed on the edge of the seat cushion and waited for the Earth’s rotation to catch up. As soon as he could focus, he noticed a glass on the table containing the blue stuff he’d sipped before falling asleep. He tried to ignore the shaking of his hand as he grasped the glass and took a long drink. The liquid was lukewarm and salty, but it tasted like nectar of the gods at that moment. After catching his breath, he drained the glass.
His stomach gurgled in protest, but Mark took a few deep breaths in an effort to overcome the nausea. He was not going to get sick again. He swallowed convulsively as cold sweat popped out on his brow. Damn it. Standing, he wiped his palms on his jeans and took a tentative step towards the bathroom.
“Hey, Mark, where are you going?” Jim stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, a steaming mug in his hand.
“Just to the bathroom. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to escape.” The deep breaths seemed to be working as the rumbling in his belly quieted to a low growl.
Jim moved to within a few feet and set a mug on the coffee table. “I wasn’t accusing you of trying to escape, and besides, you’re not a prisoner here.”
Mark paused in his journey to the bathroom. “I’m not?” Since Jim hadn’t taken him straight to be processed, he’d figured he wasn’t under arrest yet, but didn’t expect he was free to leave either.
“No, but we’ll talk about it after you come back…” Jim nodded towards the bathroom.
“Yeah. Okay.” Although he didn’t feel the need to rush anymore, he was eager to clean up. He couldn’t ever remember feeling so grimy, and wondered if he smelled bad as he felt. “Uh, Jim? Is there any chance I could use your shower?”
Judging from Jim’s quick agreement, Mark decided he probably did smell a bit ripe.
“Sure, but aren’t you supposed to keep the stitches dry?”
Mark Taylor Omnibus (The Mark Taylor Series) Page 84