[Mark Taylor 01.0] No Good Deed

by M. P. McDonald

  Voices, urgent and angry, penetrated his consciousness. They were angry at him—he could tell. They were probably mad that he had made a mess in his room. If they just gave him a minute, he’d get up and clean it. If he could just get his body to cooperate. He had to get up.

  The command from his brain died on its way to his limbs. Shiny black boots halted a few feet away and a blur of pink became a face. It was speaking to him, but Mark couldn’t process what it was saying and gave up when the effort sent a bolt of pain through his head.

  He couldn’t remember closing his eyes, but he felt something prying them open one at a time, and groaned when a bright light flashed in them. He tried to close his eyes and turn his head but hands held him still and tore at his shirt. Something tight went around his neck. Fear that they were going to strangle him entered his mind, but he couldn’t summon enough energy to open his eyes. It wasn’t until he felt a hard board at his back, and his body rolled onto it, that the panic set in. He tried to scramble off the board, but his arms and legs had been strapped down. It was no use. He was trapped. The voices dimmed and became distant. Then they were gone and everything went black.

  “Open your eyes!”

  A hand shook his shoulder and Mark blinked awake with a start. He squinted at a greenish curtain dangling from the ceiling. Where the hell was he? The room wasn’t the same as the interrogation room and he was in a bed. A real bed. With a real pillow and he smoothed his hand against the mattress. Sheets. Scratchy ones, but they felt heavenly to him. Blankets covered him up to his chest. He wanted to close his eyes and burrow into them, but the hand shook him again.

  The voice came again, “Oh no you don’t. No going back to sleep.” While still commanding, it wasn’t threatening.

  “What?” Mark tried again when his first attempt came out as a croak, and he sought out the speaker. Jim.

  Mark jerked and tried to scoot to the far side of the bed. A clip on his finger fell to the floor and he nearly tore his hand off when the handcuff attached to the bed pulled him up short. What did Jim want? He blinked, and rubbed his eyes against the top of his shoulder, feeling dizzy. A loud beeping began, adding to the confusion.

  “Christ! Lie down before you pass out again.” Jim put a hand on Mark’s arm, urging him back against the bed. “Stick your finger out. You knocked this thing off.”

  Mark complied, but never took his eyes off the other man as Jim put the clip back on Mark’s finger. At least the annoying beeping stopped. He licked his lips; they felt dry and cracked.

  Jim looked over to a guard by the door. “Free one of his hands, would you?” When the guard had done so and moved back to his post, Jim picked up a pitcher on the rolling table and poured some water into a cup.

  Eyes wide, Mark watched, an alarm from some monitor barely audible over the sound of his heart beating in his ears.

  “Here.” Jim thrust the cup at him.

  Mark recoiled, batting it away. It sailed into the curtain, splashing water across the bed and onto the floor.

  Jim looked from the cup, still rolling on the floor, to Mark. “What the hell did you do that for?”

  Mark didn’t cower, but he couldn’t look Jim in the eye. He took a deep breath and forced an answer. Remaining silent would only make it worse. “I’m not thirsty, sir.” It was a lie, but the truth, that shoving a container of water in his face sent his pulse racing, was too embarrassing to admit.

  “Bullshit.” Jim glared at him and then said, “And I suppose you aren’t hungry either.”

  “No, sir.” That was true. He couldn’t recall the last time he had eaten, but he was beyond hunger.

  “Well, you’re going to buy yourself a feeding tube. We aren’t in the practice of starving inmates to death.”

  “No, sir. Drowning is quicker.” Mark flinched at the dark look on Jim’s face. What made him say that out loud? Fear pounded through his veins, only one beat ahead of the hate and shame.

  The man stepped closer, face stiff with anger. “They’ll be in shortly to insert the tube. I heard it’s not pleasant.” Jim turned to leave, motioning to a guard on the other side of the curtain to come and sit in the room with Mark.

  The thought of a feeding tube scared the hell out of him. He couldn’t handle that someone would be shoving food into his stomach. It was just one more thing beyond his control. “Wait...sir.”

  Jim held the curtain with one hand and turned back. “Did you decide you were hungry after all?”

  Mark nodded. “Yes, sir.” He went limp against the pillow. They had won again. He expected Jim to leave then, and was surprised when the man came back and stood beside the bed. He studied him until Mark began to squirm.

  “The doc here says you’ve lost twenty pounds since you came here. How is that possible? We’re very careful about supplying enough calories.”

  Mark shrugged.

  “Did you go on a hunger strike?” Jim’s voice was quiet. Almost like he cared.

  “No, sir. My stomach just couldn’t handle food after...after the last time you questioned me.” Mark stared at the foot of the bed. Chains snaked out from under the covers, attaching to steel loops on the foot board. He moved his leg, feeling the scrape of the shackle against his ankle. “After awhile, I wasn’t hungry any more. There didn’t seem much point in eating.”

  Jim tilted his head, his tone sarcastic, “No point in eating?”

  Anger shot through Mark. It felt good after days of feeling nothing but fear. “Yeah. No point. You guys are going to kill me anyway. What do you care? Am I taking the fun out of it if I kill myself?”

  “If you would just come clean—”

  “I didn’t do anything!” Mark glared at Jim, his rage bolstering his courage. “I’d rather die than confess to something I didn’t do.”

  Jim turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

  Jim brushed past a guard at the door. “Have them get him a tray of something decent to eat if the doctor okays it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I’d rather die. Taylor’s answer rang in Jim’s ears. Maybe the guy didn’t start out trying to kill himself, but he sure as hell didn’t seem to care if he ended up dead. Jim made the long trek from the naval hospital to the brig across the base. He could have driven, but it was just close enough to make him feel guilty for not walking. He hated laziness in others, and held himself to a higher standard.

  How could Taylor have not eaten for a week and nobody had told him? Jim swore under his breath and wished he hadn’t traveled to Washington, but it wasn’t his choice. At least he’d been able to see his son, so it was worth it except in the two days he’d been back, nobody had mentioned Taylor’s food strike. If the guy died in custody, the press would have a field day. Already, there had been a few articles from the left calling for Taylor’s release, but so far, there hadn’t been much public outcry. Jim intended to keep it that way—even if it came down to force feeding.

  Jim strode past his own office and went straight to Bill’s. He entered without bothering to knock.

  Bill looked up from his computer. “How is he?” Before Jim could answer, Bill went back to typing.

  “He’ll live...for now, even if he doesn’t want to.” Jim paced the confines of the office. “He thinks we’re going to kill him, so he figures he might as well control how he dies.”

  The typing stopped and Bill swiveled his chair to face Jim. “He said that?”

  Jim shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Basically. He’s given up.”

  “I thought we were getting close to cracking him.”

  Jim sank onto a chair. “Oh, he’s cracking all right. Just not like we had hoped.”

  Bill grunted and leaned back into his chair. “Is he salvageable?”

  He knew what Bill meant. Had Taylor been so broken that he was useless as a source of information? Taylor’s burst of anger at the end convinced Jim the man wasn’t quite there yet. “Did you ever think maybe this guy is innocent?”

&nbs
p; “Nope.” Bill flipped through his desk drawer and pulled out a pack of gum, popping a stick in his mouth before holding the pack out to Jim, who waved him off. “The guy was fingered by a confirmed member of al Qaeda. He went to Afghanistan-we have proof of that. We also have the tapes of the calls he made just a few hours before the attacks took place. How else would he have known about the attacks?” Bill shook his head, his jaw working the gum like he had something personal against it.

  Jim looked out the window, a few cherry trees bloomed, their color brilliant against the blue sky. Bill had a point. Taylor had to be guilty. He took a deep breath and brought both hands down on the arms of the chair, levering himself up. “Yeah. I guess so.” He began to leave, but turned back, adding. “I just hope we get some good information before he goes completely over the edge. He’s teetering.”

  “So, we give him a little break. Question him a few times without any physical persuasion.” Bill grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. “Then, when he’s relaxed, bring him in again and twist the thumb screws.”

  “I think you enjoy the interrogations just a bit too much. You scare me, you know that?” Jim was only half-kidding.

  “Hey, these guys are getting what they deserve. Every time I see pictures of that mass of rubble in New York, I get pissed and you should too.” He shoved another stick of gum in, his usually pleasant expression darkened with anger.

  “I know. I get angry too, believe me, I just want to make sure I’m getting angry at the right people. That’s all.”

  “Don’t worry. You are.”

  Jim nodded and left. He wished he was as confident of Taylor’s guilt. It would make his job a whole lot easier.

  Jim spent the rest of the afternoon finishing some paperwork and then headed home. His stomach rumbled, and he recalled he had skipped lunch when he got the call that Taylor had been taken to the base hospital. A mental inventory of the contents of his cupboards and fridge revealed his meal choices would be limited to a can of soup and some leftover Chinese, week-old leftover Chinese at that.

  There was a little diner just outside the base he could go to. He had eaten there a few times and the meatloaf was good. And maybe that pretty waitress would be working tonight. He cracked a smile and turned on the radio. It was the best idea he’d had all day.

  Thirty minutes later, he dug into a thick slice of meatloaf smothered in a mushroom gravy. The waitress hadn’t been there, but as he ate a forkful of mashed potatoes, he decided he had still made a wise decision. Even the milk was good here, ice cold and plenty of it.

  “Wow, you look like you’re starving,” his waitress joked when she stopped to inquire if everything was okay. “Don’t worry, nobody’s gonna snatch the plate away from ya, hon.”

  The bite he had in his mouth lodged in his throat and he had to take another gulp of milk to wash it down. “Excuse me?”

  The waitress grinned. “Nothing, I’m just teasin’ you. I like to see a man with a healthy appetite.” She patted him on the shoulder and moved on down to ask a family across the room how they were doing.

  Jim’s appetite shriveled at her words, and he set his fork down, pushing away the plate. He had acted like he was starving, but he had no clue what it was really like to have missed more than one meal. He always knew if he skipped one, he could make up for it at the next meal. Taylor’s gaunt face popped into his mind and it contrasted sharply with the image he held of the man he had first questioned months ago. That guy had been tanned, healthy. He had been the picture of a man in the prime of his life. Now, he was pale and thin with his green eyes dulled by apathy and despair. A man who would rather starve.

  Jim recalled Bill’s anger about what had happened on September eleventh. He set his jaw and picked his fork up. Bill was right. The bastard deserved it. He stabbed the last bite of meatloaf and crammed it in his mouth. Yep, he deserved it. Probably.

  Chapter Eight

  Jessie shivered in her leather coat and wished her car would warm up. She fiddled with the heater settings in an attempt to coax more warmth out of the vehicle. The morning had started out in the high forties, but a stiff breeze from the north had made the early spring day feel like January. Stomach rumbling, she headed for the hot dog place and out of habit, glanced down Mark’s street as she stopped at the intersection on the corner.

  What in the world? The front lawn of the building was full of furniture and other items. It looked like someone was getting evicted. She began driving past, feeling vaguely sorry for whoever it was, when it dawned on her Taylor could be in that situation soon. Slamming on the brake, she stopped, as a horrified thought hit her. What if those were Mark’s belongings? She ignored the glare of the driver who passed her on the right. If it was, all of his things would disappear within hours. She stomped on the gas and did a U-turn, pulling up in front of Mark’s building just as a group of teens began pawing through boxes.

  Jessie jumped out of the car and flashed her badge. Judging by all the photography equipment tossed haphazardly into boxes, it had to belong to Mark. “Step away, please.” The youths looked at her and the badge. One protested, “Hey! We’re not breaking the law. We always get to take what we want from evictions.”

  She strode up to him, stopping close enough to count his eyelashes. “I’m sure you do, but some of these items might be important in an ongoing government investigation. The landlord should have cleared it with the FBI first.” In all likelihood the landlord had been given permission, but the teens didn’t know that.

  The kids gave a token protest and grumbled, but left. Jessie, hands on her hips, gazed around at all the boxes. She would take what she could. If nothing else, she could send it to Mark’s parents. Thirty minutes later, her car was packed with boxes. She had decided to try to get as much of the photography equipment as she could stuff into her car. When Mark came back, he would want that.

  After unloading the car at her apartment that evening, she decided to swing by his place again to see if she could salvage anything more. What she saw made her jaw drop. A lamp lay broken, its shade missing, a box of papers that appeared to be the contents of a junk drawer, and some clothing, dirty and trampled, was all that remained. Sickened, she reached into the papers and pulled out a piece of junk mail. It was addressed to Mark Taylor. She let the mail flutter back into the box.

  That evening, she sat at her kitchen table and examined the cameras. All of them hung open with the film compartments empty. She was sure any undeveloped film had been confiscated, but the equipment itself was of no use to the Feds.

  She picked one up that had a cracked lens. She didn’t know much about cameras, but that couldn’t be good. Setting it aside, she reached in and pulled out an older camera. Its solid black body was textured, and the lens ring looked to be made of brass instead of plastic. Her grandfather had owned a camera that looked similar, but probably wasn’t nearly as old as this one. It was certainly an antique, and maybe an heirloom? Turning it in her hands, she marveled at its simplicity compared to all the gizmos on modern cameras. She wondered if it took regular thirty-five millimeter film. Unlike the others, this one held film. She thought it odd until she saw the counter was set at one. Perhaps they hadn’t bothered because the film was still unused? Or maybe they had overlooked it since the camera was obviously old. Did it even work?

  Jessie returned all the other equipment to the box and stashed it in her hall closet. She wanted to go over the antique camera a bit more, but it had been a long day and she was exhausted so she left it on the table. It could wait until tomorrow.

  The next morning was a Saturday, and she dashed around town doing errands. Her car needed an oil change, her fridge was almost bare, and if she didn’t get her hair trimmed, she knew she would end up taking scissors to it herself, a situation that never ended well.

  Later that afternoon, she collapsed on the sofa. The pantry was stocked, the car now good for another three thousand miles and, she ran a hand through her now neatly trimmed locks and smiled; her hair was
safe from the kitchen shears. She started to doze, then remembered her niece’s dance recital and groaned. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go, she loved watching Maggie dance, but she couldn’t help wishing that it wasn’t this Saturday. Not that next Saturday would be any better. There never seemed to be enough time on the weekend to get everything done.

  Glancing at her clock, she saw that if she was going to make it to the ballet recital, she’d have to hurry. Thirty minutes later, she had her hand on the doorknob when her phone rang.

  “Hello?” She tucked the phone against her shoulder as she fished her keys out of her pocket.

  “Hey, Jess.” It was her sister, Barb. In the background, Jessie heard a multitude of excited little girl voices. The recital was going to start in twenty minutes. She’d be cutting it close, and figured her sister was checking to see if she was coming or not.

  “I’m on my way—save me a seat, okay?”

  “Of course, but I’m glad I caught you. I forgot my camera. Can you bring yours?”

  Jessie tried to remember where she had stashed hers. She hardly ever used it. Well, it had to be here somewhere. “Sure.” It took her ten minutes to find it, and when she did, she discovered she had no film. Damn. Already, she would be lucky to get there before the first class did their routine. Her gaze fell on the old camera still sitting on her table. It had film. She didn’t think Mark would mind, besides, he’d probably never know. She grabbed it and hurried out the door.

  Sweat dripped into his eyes and Mark swiped it with his shoulder as he finished his last two push-ups. He sat on the floor, his back against the edge of his bed, and reached over to grab his shirt. He felt too sweaty to put it on right away, and held it loosely in his fist until he cooled down. Since returning from the hospital, he had renewed his exercise routine, but not with the same precision. Mostly, he did it out of boredom. There had been no more interrogations, which he was thankful for, but he hadn’t been out of his cell since returning from the hospital ward except for showers.