Mark Taylor: Genesis (Prequel in the Mark Taylor Series)

by M. P. McDonald

  Mark Taylor: Genesis

  By

  M.P. McDonald

  Mark Taylor: Genesis

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 M.P. McDonald. All Rights Reserved.

  Edited by Felicia A. Sullivan

  Cover art by Victorine Lieske

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  For Mom and Dad.

  Mark Taylor: Genesis

  CHAPTER ONE ~1999

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR, July 2001

  CHAPTER FIVE

  BONUS MATERIAL

  CHAPTER ONE ~1999

  Mark Taylor paused just inside the door of the pub while his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. As excited as Mohommad had been when he had insisted on meeting here, Mark was surprised he hadn’t been standing inside the door waiting for him like a little kid watching for Santa Claus. He glanced at his watch. Damn. He was over thirty minutes late thanks to the final shoot of the day running over, but being a fellow photographer, Mo would understand…probably.

  “Mark!” Mo waved from the end of the bar and pointed to the empty stool beside him. Winding his way through the room, Mark nodded to a few acquaintances and stopped for a quick hello with a couple of others.

  “Hey, Mo! How’s it going?” Mark clapped him on the shoulder as he slid onto the stool. After ordering a beer, he grinned at his friend and made a rolling motion with his hand. “So…? What’s up?”

  “I have a deal for you.” Mohommad paused while the bartender gave Mark his bottle of beer.

  “Uh-oh. I’m not sure I like the sound of this. The last time you had a deal for me, it didn’t turn out so well. ” The beer was cold and soothed a throat hoarse from trying to keep a bunch of little kids upbeat and happy during a shoot for a stain remover ad. Over and over the kids had to slide into home plate. He hadn’t had time to shower. Dust coated his arms, and it tasted like he had breathed in half the dirt from the diamond.

  Mo’s thick eyebrows knit in confusion. “What time?”

  “The time you begged me to take over the bridal party fitting and in return, you would do the portrait of the couple celebrating their golden anniversary? The boring fitting turned into a drunken bachelorette party.”

  A glint of humor lit Mohommad’s eyes. “And they thought you were really a male stripper?”

  Mark lifted his beer in salute. “Yep. The sweet old couple would have been a much safer gig.”

  “Safer?”

  “Yeah, safer. Those ladies goosed me so many times, I had bruises for a week.” Mark chuckled at the memory. The job had mostly been fun, but he enjoyed giving Mo a hard time about it when the opportunity arose. Mo owed him one on that gig. Drunken bridesmaids did not make for good group photos. He wondered if those photos had ever made it to the wedding album. He shook his head, the smile lingering. “Okay, so it wasn’t exactly dangerous, but it does make me just a little leery of any of your so-called deals.”

  “You have to admit, the thought of you being a stripper is pretty hilarious.” Mo chuckled and sipped from a glass of some kind of clear drink. Carbonation bubbles dotted the sides, so Mark ruled out water as the contents. Club soda? His friend’s mood sobered. “But I swear, this deal isn’t at all like that.

  “Yeah? What’s it going to cost me?”

  Mohommad gave him a sly smile. “Not that much.”

  Mark raised an eyebrow and paused with the bottle tilted towards his mouth before taking a sip.

  “Don’t give me that look. You’ll love my idea. You’re always going on and on about how you want to do something special, like the photographers who get photos in Life magazine. I’m telling you, this is your chance. You’ll be thanking me when you get a Pulitzer.”

  Snorting, Mark had to put the back of his hand to his nose to keep from spraying beer all over the top of the bar. He took a deep breath and laughed. “Really? Well, give it to me. Tell me all about this Pulitzer opportunity.”

  Mo took a sip of his own drink. “I’m going back to Afghanistan, and I want you to come with me.”

  “What?” It took a moment for Mark to process what Mo had said. “Why are you going, and more importantly, why do you want me to go?”

  Turning sideways, Mo faced Mark. “You know how I told you my father brought us here as children so that we could have a greater opportunity, right?”

  Mark nodded.

  “Well, mostly it was because of my mother and sister. My mother wanted more opportunities for my sister. I don’t know how, but she convinced my father and here we are.” He spread his hands then clasped them loosely, regarding them for a moment as he seemed to gather his thoughts. “All my life, my mother told me how women are treated poorly in Afghanistan and how it’s become even worse now. What I want to do is go and tell the women’s stories through photographs.”

  The idea intrigued Mark, but he had at least a dozen questions. “It sounds…interesting and certainly a wonderful cause, but I need to know a little more. Like why me? Why don’t you just do the photos yourself?”

  Mo nodded. “I knew you’d ask that. I have a couple of reasons. The first is, it’s going to be a big project. I figured two of us could cover more ground than I could alone, but the second reason is that you take amazing photographs. I take good ones, and technically, I’m probably better than you, but you have a knack for getting photos that show the soul of a person.”

  Mark studied his beer bottle as heat climbed his neck and raced up his face. Did Mo really think that? Elbow propped, he grasped the top of the bottle with his thumb and first two fingers, twisting it back and forth. He glanced at Mo. “When did you get so damn poetic?”

  Mo’s teeth flashed as he smirked. “Poetry sings through my blood, Mark. I’m so full of poetry, it almost chokes me unless I let it spill out from time to time. ”

  “Well, you’re full of something all right, but most people wouldn’t call it poetry,” Mark said, but he smiled as he drained the bottle.

  Mark took a deep breath as he turned his Jeep onto the long gravel driveway up to his parents’ house. Flowers bloomed all around the sunny yellow house, and baskets of flowers hung at intervals along the wraparound porch. The sight was calming. Maybe his dad would keep his mouth shut about Mark’s career choice. They said there was a first time for everything. He grabbed his duffle bag out of the back and exited the car, taking the steps up the front porch two at a time, the habit ingrained from childhood.

  With a light knock, he opened the front door. “Mom? I’m here.” He closed his eyes and sniffed. Apple pie? He grinned.

  “In the kitchen, hon!”

  Dropping the duffle at the bottom of the step, he ambled down the hallway to the kitchen. “Hey, Mom.” He threw an arm over her shoulder and snatched a bit of crust off the edge of the pie cooling on the counter.

  “Hey, hands off! That’s for dessert.” She gave his hand a light smack, but he just laughed, already scheming how he could get a slice before dinner.

  “Do you have ice cream?”

  “No, sorry.”

  A pang of disappointment was short-lived as his mother gave him a sly smile. There was ice cream, he was sure of it.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  His mom waved vaguely towards the backyard. “He’s out there sharpening…something. I forget wh
at.”

  “Is he on-call tonight?” Part of him was hoping his father would have to leave, but guilt stabbed him even as the thought dashed through his mind. He couldn’t avoid telling his parents about his upcoming trip so he steeled his resolve to break the news tonight no matter what.

  His mother opened the fridge and pulled out a tray of hamburgers and another of fresh vegetables. “The grill is about ready. Would you go throw these on?”

  Mark took the trays. “Sure.” He wasn’t much of a chef, but he could handle burgers on the grill. The zucchini and summer squash were a little more challenging. After tossing the burgers on, and setting the sliced veggies around the edges of the grill, he leaned against the deck railing. The backyard met a cornfield at the far end. Towards late summer, the stalks would tower over his head and playing hide and seek had been an irresistible temptation for him and his friends—until they incurred the wrath of the farmer who lived on the other side of the field. His father had hung up the phone after speaking with the farmer and given Mark the ‘Look’. After that, they could only go into the corn to look for a lost baseball. They lost a lot of them.

  “Thirsty?”

  Mark turned, his mind so focused on the past, he gave a mental start when he saw the beer his mom held out in offering. “Sure. Thanks.” He cracked it open and took a long swallow. The burgers sizzled so he lifted one to see if it needed flipping. Not quite.

  She had a glass of iced tea and took a seat on the lounger. “So, what brings you up here this weekend?”

  Mark shrugged. “Can’t a guy just want to visit his parents without having a reason?”

  “Of course, but you have something up your sleeve. I can tell.” She sipped her tea, her eyes thoughtful. “Is it a girl?”

  He cringed at the hope in her voice. If she had her wish, he would be married off and have at least four kids by now. It was no secret that she had always wanted more kids. “Sorry. There’s nobody special at the moment.” He dated occasionally, always searching for the right woman, but so far, none had whatever it was he was seeking. His parents told him he was too picky and maybe he was, but it was more than that. It was as if he was missing something and had to find the woman who held whatever it was he was missing—like a crazy scavenger hunt, only he had no map or clue as to where to begin the hunt. “Anyway, it’s nothing major, just a trip I’m planning with Mohommad. He came out to dinner that one time.”

  “Sure, I remember him. Where are you going on your trip?”

  The smoke from the burgers wafted in the breeze, the aroma making his mouth water. He turned them over. “I’ll fill you in over dinner. Do you want me to go get Dad, or do you want to?”

  She set her iced tea on a side table, stood and held her hand out for the spatula. “I’ll take over.”

  Mark surprised his father in the woodshop, and took a few moments to admire the bookcase his dad was working on. Some guys liked to relax by working on cars, or watching sports, but his dad’s hobby was woodworking. For years his father tried to get Mark interested, and while he could build a birdhouse or a simple bookcase, his heart had never been in it. He’d rather take a photo of the tree than carve it into something.

  Over dinner, Mark’s dad told stories about work, asked Mark if he was coming up in the fall for their annual hunting trip and finally, almost grudgingly, inquired as to how Mark’s photography business was going.

  “It’s going great, Dad. I’m getting some good commercial jobs. I even shot a national print ad for a major diaper brand.” That job had allowed him to make his last loan payment for the photography equipment he had needed when he started the business. He might not earn close to what his dad earned as a doctor, but he was self-sufficient and building a nice cushion.

  “Diapers? Really?”

  Mark bit back the burn of resentment his father’s tone ignited. On the surface, a diaper ad did sound kind of silly, but it paid big bucks and was a lot more work than his dad would ever understand. Babies didn’t perform on command. Granted, it wasn’t the cover of Life or Time magazine, but he hoped his trip would provide him some shots that might be worth submitting.

  His mother glared at his dad, then turned to Mark. “I bet chasing after those babies was quite a task.”

  He gave her a grateful smile. “Yeah, it was exasperating, but kind of fun too. It kept me on my toes, that’s for sure, because you just never know what a baby is going to do next. If I’m not alert…bam! I miss the money shot. I mean, it’s not like I can ask the baby to repeat the action.” Despite the undercurrent of resentment, his enthusiasm bubbled up when describing the shoot.

  To his credit, his dad laughed at some of the antics Mark recalled and by the time his mother brought the apple pie to the table, the mood had mellowed.

  She handed him a carton of vanilla ice cream and the scooper. “Look what I found in the back of the freezer.”

  Grinning, he dug the ice cream scooper into the carton and plopped a scoop on his dad’s slice of pie, and then his own. His mom passed. Mark shrugged. “You’re missing out, Mom.” With the edge of his fork, he sawed off a mouthful of pie, making sure to get some ice cream in the bite. The apples, lightly browned with cinnamon, were still warm, and their tart flavor was balanced by the cold ice cream. Heaven on a plate.

  “That’s okay. I’m not even sure I can eat this piece, I’m so full.” She took a small bite and then looked at Mark with her eyebrows raised. “So, did you have something special you wanted to tell us while you were here?”

  Lifting one shoulder, he edged off another bite, and said, “It really isn’t that big of a deal. I’m going to Afghanistan with Mohommad. He has a great idea for a book, and he wants me to do most of the photography.”

  Mark jumped when his dad’s fork clattered onto the table. “You’re going to Afghanistan? Are you out of your mind?”

  He had expected skepticism but not the vehemence his father displayed. “No, it’s a great opportunity. It’s the kind of photography I’ve always wanted to do.”

  “The country is unstable. Even the Red Cross is pulling a lot of their workers out of the country after a bunch of them were beaten. Didn’t you see that on the news?”

  Poking at the edge of the crust with his fork, Mark nodded. “Sure. I heard about it, but that doesn’t mean something like that is going to happen to me. Mohommad has family there. His uncle is some kind of mayor or whatever they call it, of his village.”

  With a grunt, his dad picked up his fork and polished off his pie, his jaw working it as if the crust was leather instead of delicate, flaky pastry. “What about your business? Do you think you can really go off and just leave it?”

  “I don’t know why you’re so dead set against this before you even hear me out.” He slid his plate away and glared at his dad. “I’m kind of surprised that you’re concerned about my business since you’ve never shown an interest in it before.” Immediately he regretted his remark and sighed, scrubbing his hands against his eyes before spreading them. “Look, I just feel like it’s something I have to do, okay? I may never get another chance like this and as far as my studio goes, the trip is planned for July. That’s my slowest time. People are busy or out of town, and the fall print ads haven’t started yet. It’s the best time of year for me to go. Besides, I have a little money saved up, and Mo is paying for most of the expenses in return for me doing most of the photos. It’s like a working vacation.”

  His mother touched his hand and said, “Mark, we’re just worried that something could happen. Couldn’t you go somewhere like Europe?”

  “No.” What was there for him to photograph in Europe? French women walking their dogs down the Champs Elysee? Italian women catering to their forty-year old sons? He took a deep breath. “Look, while I agree there might be some risk, it’s not like I’m going into battle. Mohommad wants to do a book about the plight of women in Afghanistan. They are almost prisoners in their homes. They can’t drive, the girls can’t go to school, and basically the women
are the property of their husbands.” He saw a hint of understanding in his mother’s eyes, but his dad was leaning back, his arms crossed, obviously still skeptical. He tried one more time. “Don’t you understand? Mohommad intends to help the women of Afghanistan with the book. It’s a chance for me to do something good. I know it doesn’t compare to being a doctor, but I think I can help make a difference.

  Nobody spoke and only the sound of the clock ticking on the soffit above the sink broke the silence until Mark said, “You realize that I’m not asking permission. I’m just asking for your blessing, but either way, I’m going.”

  His parents exchanged a look across the table. Mark wasn’t sure exactly what they said in their unspoken communication, but they must have come to a conclusion because his mother nodded to his father.

  “You’re a grown man, so we can’t stop you even if we tried, but if you feel you have to go, there isn’t much we can do to change your mind. Just stay safe.”

  The muscles in Mark’s neck eased. He hadn’t been aware of how knotted they had been until they relaxed. Almost giddy with relief, Mark nodded. “I intend to. Mohommad has been back to visit several times in the last few years, so he knows where it’s safe to go and where it isn’t. Plus, he already has an itinerary planned for us.”

  For the next hour, Mark spoke of Mohommad’s plans and his father offered advice here and there, while his mom reminded him of items he would want to pack. Most of their suggestions were just common sense ones that Mark would have done anyway, but he thanked them nonetheless, and pretended that he would never have thought of those things without their help.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mark slung his camera bag across his chest, one hand resting on it as he and Mohommad navigated the teeming streets of Kandahar.