[Mark Taylor 01.0] No Good Deed

by M. P. McDonald

  “You don’t understand. I can’t do that because I don’t have any ‘sources’!” He raked a hand through his hair. “I have...” Oh God, this was hard. “I have a camera. Those times when I showed up...the robberies...the shooting...I-I have a camera and when I use it, the photos that come out...they aren’t anything I photographed. There are pictures of those things happening.”

  Her eyes widened in shock and disbelief.

  He licked his lips and rushed on, “I don’t know where they come from, or...or how they end up on my film, but they do. Then at night, after looking at the photos, the images come to life in my dreams. Like a movie—” He shook his head with a mirthless laugh. “The next day, they come true...unless I do something to stop it.”

  The look on her face had gone from disbelief to pity.

  He reached for her hand. “Please, you gotta believe me, Jessie. You’ve seen me stop things. How else would I know what I know?”

  She pulled free and backed to the cell door. She turned, her shoulders slumped as she rested her head against the steel. For a long minute, she remained that way before facing him. “You realize how that sounds?”

  Mark nodded. What more could he say? He picked at an orange thread on his sleeve. It sounded insane. He knew that. Flicking the thread from his fingers, he watched it float to the floor and rest beside the cockroach. “They think I’m crazy don’t they? You think I’m crazy.”

  She threw her arms wide. “What do you expect? You give them this bizarre story and then wonder why they don’t believe you?” She stood in front of him, hands on her hips. “Come on, Mark.”

  “Jessie, listen, please.” He willed her to believe him. “I was only trying to help—I did help. You know that!”

  He saw doubt as she looked away. She thought he was crazy. Or guilty. Oh God. His gut twisted and pain ripped through him. Why had he tried to stop it? It wasn’t something isolated, like most of the things he’d changed. It had been bigger than himself. He should have realized that. This ability that he had to see the future in his dreams had never been meant for something this big.

  “Right now, I’m the only one even willing to listen to you. The guys in charge,” she flicked her hand towards the hallway, “they’re done listening. They’re talking about enemy combatant status now.”

  Her words seemed to come from a distance as his mind slowed. Nobody believed him.

  “An enemy combatant, Mark. Do you have any idea what that means?”

  He jumped as Jessie lifted his chin to meet her eyes. “No.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat.

  “It means no lawyers, no trials, and you leave your rights outside the door. It’s just you and them.”

  Mark’s fear gave way to anger and it burned through him. What did they want from him? Did they expect him to confess to something that he didn’t do? “I dreamed the whole thing, Jessie. The whole damn thing.” He blinked sudden moisture from his eyes, embarrassed. “Why won’t anyone listen? Instead, they chained me up like I’m a goddamn animal!”

  “That story won’t work, Mark.” She stepped back, putting distance between them.

  Ignoring her comment, he cradled his head in his hands. The dream of 9/11 replayed in his mind like a horror movie. “I saw the planes hitting the buildings, Jessie. I saw them collapse. Hell, I even saw the damn hijackers. I told them all that.” Fists balled, he leaned towards her, his voice low and hard, “They could have stopped it if they’d listened. They could have stopped the attacks.”

  Mark stepped towards Jessie, barely catching himself when the chain brought him up short and the metal cuff bit into his ankle. With a cry of frustration and rage, he yanked his foot, ignoring the cut of the metal against his leg.

  “Stop, you’re hurting yourself! Are you crazy?” She moved as if to stop him, but paused, fear flashing in her eyes.

  It was gone in an instant, but he saw it and staggered back at the realization that she was truly afraid of him.

  “Crazy?” He spread his arms wide. “Look around you, Jessie. I guess…I guess I am…crazy.” He choked out the last word, wanting only to crawl into a corner and curl up with his shame and humiliation.

  The guard burst into the room and shouted at him to sit down. Mark took a step backwards to sit, but saw the fear and alarm splashed across Jessie’s face. Ashamed of his outburst, he reached towards her, intending to apologize. He never got the chance. The guard slammed him against the wall, and Mark’s cheek and forehead cracked against the cinder blocks. His vision flickered and he tasted the salty tang of blood in his mouth. More guards filled the room and his hands were yanked behind his back and cuffed. The door clanked shut and Jessie was gone.

  Chapter Four

  A half dozen guards circled him. Dressed in riot gear, the men looked ready to battle an army. One held chains, another clutched darkened goggles and some kind of earphones. Still another had a pair of thick mitts tucked under his arm. Mark took a step back in confusion. What the hell?

  One guard, empty handed, moved behind Mark and undid the cuffs, only to re-secure them in front. “Raise your arms.”

  He lifted his arms. “Where am I going?”

  The guard wrapped a chain around Mark’s waist and let the end drop towards the floor. He spoke in a cold voice, “I have no idea and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  Shocked, Mark ignored the snide tone. “What about the hearing the lawyer said I’d get?”

  The guard shrugged and adjusted a pair of goggles.

  Before Mark could ask another question, the guard placed the goggles over Mark’s eyes. Every last spark of light cut off. Earphones settled over his ears and all sound disappeared as well.

  Disoriented, he shook his head to dislodge the equipment. His hands were caught in a paralyzing grip and the mitts forced on. Anger overcame his shock. The moment the men released him, he doubled over and tried to rip at the goggles, but the chains thwarted his attempts. Rationality abandoned him as terror and the survival instinct kicked in to high gear. Mark knew it was useless to fight, but he couldn’t help it. Self-preservation demanded that he try. He yanked his hands, but dizzy in the black, soundless void, he stumbled. His right shoulder smashed against the concrete. He barely felt the impact as terror consumed him. His efforts to get free of the gear were futile and he was hauled to his feet.

  He hunched in a half- crouch, his body quivering. The chain around his waist tightened and tugged him forward. It was either fall again, or give in. Gasping, he took a step and slid the other foot up to meet the first. The length of chain shortened his steps, and he had to manage a jogging shuffle to keep pace with the guards.

  When he would slow, the hands on his biceps squeezed, forcing him to quicken his pace. Would they drag him if he fell?

  Mark’s toe caught on something and the floor changed from smooth concrete to something rougher. Asphalt? A hand went to his head while the two on his arms lifted. Confused, he balked, but was pushed from behind. The chain around his waist went taut, and off balance, he stumbled, banging his shin on something. He swore at the sharp pain, then realized that he was supposed to step into a vehicle. It took a few attempts for him to find the edge with his foot, and then he climbed in. He sat on the first seat he bumped against. The chains tightened with a little jolt, and he guessed they had secured the ends somehow.

  His heart pounded from the exertion and he panted. It felt like he had run a mile instead of what was probably just a short distance through the jail hallways. What was the point of all the security measures? Wouldn’t this transport have been easier on everyone if he could at least see where he was going?

  The vehicle started and stopped several times and turned a few corners. Stop lights and traffic. He could almost see it. After that, there was a stretch of unbroken motion with a few bumps. They had left the city and its pot-holes behind. When the vehicle stopped, the chains went tight before loosening, and he realized someone had unclipped him from the seat. Responding to the pull of the
chains, he twisted on the seat, and took a leap of faith that the ground would meet his foot as he stepped out.

  Wind tore at his clothes and he hunched his shoulders against it. The air smelled of exhaust and gasoline...no... An airport. Where the hell were they taking him? He trembled from more than just the icy blasts of air.

  The chains pulled him forward and he resumed his shuffle. His foot rammed into something and he tripped onto an incline. The guards saved him from hitting too hard, but they were none too gentle as they righted him. He felt in front of him with his toe. A ramp. Mark balked. No way was he going to get on a plane until he knew where they were taking him. He turned his head to where he thought the guard was standing. “Wait. Please. I just need to know where I’m going.” Unable to hear his own voice, he wasn’t even sure he spoke out loud.

  Despite the cold, he broke out in a sweat. It stung his eyes. More hands joined the ones on his arms, and he was shoved up the ramp. Finally, the chain went slack and the hands pushed down on his shoulders, urging him to sit. The trembling ceased as exhaustion stole his energy.

  Hours seemed to crawl by, but he had no real clue to the passage of time. His ears popped, so he knew that the plane was in the air. His stomach rumbled. When was the last time he’d eaten? Breakfast must have been hours ago.

  To add to his misery, nature came calling. He squirmed, trying to ease the discomfort of a full bladder. Just when he thought he’d embarrass himself, hands yanked him to his feet and led him twenty steps away. He didn’t know why he began counting the steps, but it gave him a feeling of control to have some measure of space.

  His hands were freed of the mitts and the earphones lifted.

  “If you gotta take a leak, now’s the time.”

  Mark’s face burned, but he hastened to relieve himself.

  Afterwards, someone squirted what smelled like hand sanitizer into his palm. How thoughtful. At least they were being hygienic. Then his hands were wrapped around a cold object. Startled, he almost dropped it before realizing it was a cup. Wary of what it might contain, he felt for the rim and raised it, taking a tiny sip. Water. Cold, blessed water. He guzzled, afraid it would be taken away before he finished. When no more poured into his mouth, he lowered the cup and hoped in vain for more.

  It was twenty steps back to his seat. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he woke up with a start. His heart thundered in his ears.

  The vibration from the plane had ceased. They must have landed. Fear of the unknown rose in him. It was bad in the FBI lock-up, but he had a feeling that where he was going would be infinitely worse.

  Mark put one foot in front of the other. He didn’t bother counting the steps this time. It wouldn’t matter. The walk wasn’t long, and soon he sat in what he assumed, from the vibrations, to be another vehicle. After a time the vibrating stopped and he was once again forced to walk, this time for longer. He shuffled along and stopped when the hands on his arms tightened and tugged. Fingers brushed the sides of his head, as the earphones were removed.

  The rush of air on his eardrums and the sudden return of sound almost hurt. Wherever he was, it was quiet, and from the echo of the guards’ shoes on the floor, it sounded like another cell.

  The goggles came off, and Mark squinted, blinking at the harsh light. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. It was a cell, but one even smaller and more stark than the previous one. Three guards stood in the room with him. Two others remained just outside the cell door. One took the mitts off Mark’s hands, and then removed the chains and shackles on his legs. Another took Mark’s shoes.

  “Stand here until the door shuts, and then put your hands through the slot,” said the guard who had taken his shoes, as he pointed towards the door. “Then, put on those clothes over there, and put the other clothes through the slot as well.” The man looked Mark in the eye. “You have three minutes. Don’t make us come in to help you.”

  Mark nodded. The guards left the room, and the door clanked shut. He shuddered at the sound, then went to the slot and put his hands through. The cuffs came off and his hands began to tingle as blood flow increased. He hadn’t realized how tight the manacles had been until they were gone. As quickly as he could, he changed into the orange t-shirt and baggy pants. A number was stenciled across his chest. His number.

  Gathering the dirty clothes, he shoved them through the opening. Nobody came in to help him, so he must have met the time requirements. The bed jutted out from a wall, if it could be called a bed. A thin mattress covered a simple metal shelf; at the foot of the bed was a folded blanket.

  He sat on the shelf and rubbed his wrists. So, this was it. He glanced at the steel toilet and tiny sink. Other than the bed, that’s all there was.

  Shivering, he took the rough blanket and pulled it around his shoulders. What would happen to him now? Thirst hit him but his body felt paralyzed and he remained on the edge of the bed.

  He didn’t know how long he sat. Nothing in the cell changed, the light stayed just as bright, and no sounds penetrated the thick walls. If they kept him here too long, he would lose his mind. He needed color. The photographer in him already missed framing shots in his mind. It was second nature to him, even when he didn’t carry a camera. But here, there was nothing. No shadows, no colors. Just white walls, a dirty gray floor, and dull steel fixtures. Only the orange of his clothing broke up the monotony.

  After a while, his stomach growled, and his thirst became over-powering. He shook off his lethargy, got up, and drank from the faucet. Finished, he splashed his face and worked the water up into his hair. He felt grimy and scrubbed his fingers into his scalp and across the back of his neck. The water wasn’t warm but it still felt good. Since he had no towel, he swiped his face along his shoulder and pulled his shirt up, using it to dry off.

  Afterwards, he felt a little more human, but the beginnings of a headache tightened the muscles down his neck. Mark groaned and curled up on the bed, pulling the blanket over his shoulders. Numb with fatigue and overwhelmed with the situation, he simply stared at the wall.

  The clink of the slot opening woke him some time later. A foam tray slid into the room. Mark swung his feet off the bed and hurried to it. The plate held a casserole of some sort. A thick sauce held bits of chicken, peas, and egg noodles together in clumps. He sniffed, but it gave off very little scent. A carton of milk, lukewarm, a dry biscuit and rubbery gelatin completed the meal. It wasn’t haute cuisine, but it was edible and he was hungry.

  Not long after he had finished, the slot opened and a voice commanded that he send the tray back out. He obeyed and then sat again on the bed, at a loss as to what to do next.

  When he was a kid and did something wrong, he’d be sent to his room. It was the worst punishment imaginable. No freedom to play outside. No running through fields or catching frogs. Just four walls. At least he’d had windows and books, and his parents usually relented after an hour or two. Especially his mom. He caught his breath at the sharp ache the memory caused. It spread from his chest to his throat and formed a lump. His lawyer had promised to contact them and fill them in on what was going on. This would kill them. He had hoped to make his dad proud of him. Instead, he was stuck in prison.

  Mark tried to swallow the lump but it hurt too much. His dad had been right. If he had never picked up a camera, he wouldn’t be in this mess now. He shook his head. It wasn’t just any camera though. It was the antique one. If only he hadn’t spotted the camera in the bazaar. The pain in his chest intensified and he closed his eyes and took slow, deep breaths. If only he had passed that stall. If only he had ignored the vendor, he would be home right this minute. If only.

  He lay back and clasped his hands behind his head, focusing on the ceiling, but seeing the dusty marketplace at the base of an ancient citadel. Mark had taken some shots of the impressive structure, and after the light faded, he’d wandered into the bazaar and bought some fruit. As he ate, he browsed the stalls. One sold gorgeous scarves and Mark purchased one for his
mom. Another vendor had tables laden with intricately carved wooden items and so for his dad, he bought an ingenious collapsible wooden bowl. His father liked working with wood and would appreciate the craftsmanship. Mark almost bypassed the vendor selling the cameras; it was getting late and his arms were already full.

  At first glance, he’d dismissed the cameras as pure junk. Most were so old, he doubted that they worked any more, but one caught his eye. As he held it, he felt a shock in his hands, as if he’d touched a live wire. He jumped, nearly dropping the camera as he thrust it away. Mark back-pedaled a few steps. His fingers tingled and he wiped them on his jeans, but he couldn’t leave the camera alone. He had to pick it up again. This time, instead of a shock, it warmed his palms and gave a charged hum.

  Turning to the vendor, he asked if it worked, but the vendor just shrugged. Mark didn’t know if that meant the man wasn’t sure if it worked, or he just didn’t understand the question. Mark fiddled with the camera, held it up and framed a shot in the viewfinder. The hum felt good in his hands. Even if it didn’t work, cleaned up a bit, it would look good in his studio. He had to have it. Curious about its history, he tried to find out how the vendor had acquired it, but the man only smiled and shook his head. The price was steeper than he expected, but Mark had paid without even trying to barter.

  Restless, Mark sat up and paced the cell. It was five steps lengthwise, and when he stood in the middle of the cell, and stretched his arms out at his sides, he could touch each wall with his fingertips. He remembered reading that a person’s arm span correlated with their height. He was six-foot two, so he guessed that the width was about six feet.

  A smothering sensation clawed at his throat, and he tugged his t-shirt collar as he eyed the walls. Flat and white with no shadows, they seemed to close in, ready to crush him.

  He closed his eyes and tried to quell the rising panic. Leaning against the cold wall, he slid down until he sat with his knees bent; elbows propped against his thighs and cradled his head. Swallowing rising nausea, he fought to get a grip.