He brought the ram’s head on top of the guardhouse into focus, and pushed the shutter. This would be a nice place to propose—when the time was right. Perhaps in the spring. Or Christmas. He grinned. Talk about getting ahead of yourself. What would his parents think of Jessie? He hadn’t even said anything to them yet, just hinted that he was seeing someone. He didn’t want to get his mom’s hopes up and if he told her too much, she would call him for daily updates.
All he had told them was he was seeing someone and when he was ready, he would tell them the details. He felt a twinge of guilt that he had used his relationship with Jessie to get out of a few trips home this summer. He swept the guilt into the far corner of his mind.
He lowered the camera and slipped his arm through the strap, letting the camera dangle against his side as he leaned against the railing. A breeze carried over the river, ruffling his hair while the sun soaked into his skin. With nothing more pressing than the photo shoot later, the day felt like a holiday. A bike ride would be great. If the shoot went well, he could probably squeeze one in before it became too dark. To get his leg back in shape, he had done a lot of riding, but the last few weeks, he had been so busy catching up on photo jobs he had been forced to reschedule while recuperating, coupled with the future photos he tried to work into his week, he just hadn’t had time for a hard bike ride. The only thing that would make the day perfect would be to see Jessie tonight, but she was going to her niece’s ballet recital and then out to dinner with her sister and her family afterwards.
Mark pushed away from the rail. His stomach rumbled and with lunch on his mind, he finished out the roll by taking some photos of a large sailboat heading towards him. Done, he ambled off the bridge before it would have to rise to allow the sailboat with its tall mast, through to the locks and out into the lake. His timing was perfect.
His leg ached after the short, but intense bike ride. Mark did his best to ignore the pain as he pulled on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt after showering. The ache just meant it was getting stronger. Hopefully. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed some sports cream into the scar and the muscles around it, wrinkling his nose at the strong scent. He glanced at the bedside clock. Dinner should arrive any moment. Tonight was Chinese and his mouth watered in anticipation. Impatient, he moved to the window and peeked through the blinds to see if the delivery car had parked below. Shoot.
Sighing, he pulled his fingers from between the slats and headed to the dark room. Tomorrow he had three bookings. The first one was short, just an acting headshot. He had worked with the guy previously and knew he was easy to work with. Next was a catalog shoot, but it was at a jewelry store, not his studio. Remembering his idea about proposing earlier, he quashed a momentary panic. Just because he was going to be surrounded by diamond rings didn’t mean he had to actually buy one. Or even look at them. He could just play it by ear. Besides, he probably wouldn’t have time to browse. As soon as he finished the shoot, he had to high tail it across town to the John Hancock Center. A client lived on the sixty-fourth floor and wanted good photos of the interior and the gorgeous view overlooking the lake, to help sell the condo. He couldn’t even recall what his last shoot involved and supposed he should run down to the studio and check the appointment book, but he was pretty sure it was a look-see to find models for a high end children’s clothing line. It made sense because look-sees with kids had to be scheduled after school hours.
Which such a jam-packed schedule, it had crossed his mind to leave the camera on the shelf today. If there were any saves on the agenda, he hoped he would be able to squeeze them in between jobs. If he had to, the Hancock shoot could take place the next day. The client had already said he was flexible as long as it was done before the next week. The only thing he wouldn’t have time for would be to get new future photos.
While waiting for the delivery, he prepared the dark room. His buzzer went off just as he finished getting it ready. Perfect timing. He could develop the roll and let the photos dry while he ate.
After paying for the food, he snatched an eggroll out of the bag, eating it as he returned to the darkroom. The roll was hot and crispy. Popping the last bite into his mouth, he swiped his fingers on his shorts and prepared the first steps in processing the film. One day, pressed for time, he had used a one-hour place to develop the film, but the clerk had questioned him about the photos of the bike rider lying in the street covered in blood. The question had caught him by surprise and he had stammered out some flimsy excuse about being a freelance photographer with the newspaper. It wasn’t a complete lie as he had done some freelance work with newspapers, but the lie about that particular photo didn’t fall naturally off his tongue. Afterward, he questioned the wisdom of having his film developed by some place where anyone could inspect them. After that, he avoided any kind of commercial printers for the film from the special camera— no matter how tempting. It could open a complex situation that he wasn’t prepared to explain.
The scent of the Chinese food disappeared into the smell of the chemicals as he developed the film. When the first images began to form, he forgot all about eggrolls and fried rice.
What the hell?
How had he managed to get photos of the World Trade Center? He squinted in the red light. No, those had to be some building along the river. He tried to think of any that might resemble the twin towers but came up blank.
As the images darkened, he reached with the tongs, his gut churning as he processed what he was seeing in the photos. He tried to make out details of the photos as they floated in their chemical bath, but the room was too dark. He fought the urge to rush. Whatever these photos showed, it was big. He could see that immediately, but rushing might ruin one of them and it looked like he would need every clue he could get to prevent the unthinkable that seemed to be materializing in his photo tray.
He lost track of time as he stood studying the photos when it occurred to him that it was safe to turn on the lights. Already, he felt a restless energy, a need to do something about these pictures. He snapped the five that showed the horrific images off the line, ignoring the photos of the river and bridge.
He set them on the counter, pushing the bag of food aside as he laid the photos down side-by-side. After two years of acting on the precognitive images produced by the camera, he thought he was immune to any kind of emotional reaction. He had changed too many of the photos for them to even seem real anymore. After all, once he acted, they weren’t real. They were just images of what might have been. In his mind, they were shadows of the future like in the story A Christmas Carol. He shook his head. Not quite like that, but it was a close approximation. But this…this was incomprehensible.
At first glance, Mark had thought that all the images were of the same plane from different angles, but upon closer examination, he could make out the differing logos on the tails and one photo showed a ball of fire. He blinked and took out his loupe, making certain they were different planes. There was no doubt.
His mind whirled with possible ways of averting the disaster, but he couldn’t latch on to any one thought long enough to follow it through with a plan of action. Overwhelmed and realizing this was out of out of his league, he picked up the phone, but his finger froze over the number pad. Should he call the cops? Or the fire department? And tell them what? That planes would crash into the World Trade Center? Along with one in a field…somewhere? He wasn’t even sure what happened at the Pentagon, but the photo showed a huge fireball in one side of it. Since he had photos of four planes, and three of them were in the process of actually crashing, he guessed that the photo of the American Airlines jet might end up being the cause of the fireball.
His knuckles whitened around the phone. He couldn’t even warn anyone tonight. Not without any facts. Goddamn it! If he attempted to without any real information it would get him tossed into the psych ward right after they booked him for…well, he wasn’t sure what they could charge him with, but he was sure they could find something. Probably
filing a false police report, only it wouldn’t be false by sometime tomorrow. Why couldn’t the photos have time stamps? Or show where the planes were from? Flight numbers would be too much to hope for, but while he was wishing for the impossible, he tossed that wish into the pot with the rest of them.
As he started to process the information, logic took hold. Something like this didn’t just occur accidentally. Mark admitted he was no expert, but didn’t jets have all kinds of safeguards to prevent pilot errors of that magnitude? His stomach coiled into a tight ball when the implications of what four different planes meant. This was no accident. One plane was an accident, two an unthinkable tragedy, but four? That was somebody’s plan.
Setting the phone back on its charger, he drummed his fingers on the countertop as his gaze shot from one image to another, unable to concentrate on just one. How could he stop this? The coil twisted into a knot of pain. What could he do? He slammed his fist on the counter, not caring when the blow caused the bag of food to fall over, spilling the contents onto the floor.
With his elbows resting in front of the photos and fingers rubbing circles on his temples, he took a deep breath. Okay, just settle down and think it through. It wasn’t like this was going to happen tonight. These were all daytime shots, so he had a little time. He raked a hand through his hair as he glanced at the clock. Had it only been an hour since his dinner had been delivered? There was no way he could eat now, but his biggest worry was how in the hell could he sleep? Sleep was imperative so he could dream, but he was so tense and keyed up, it would be elusive tonight.
He circled the breakfast bar and opened the fridge. Four beers. Too bad it wasn’t a case, or better yet, a bottle of Scotch, but it would have to do. He opened one and gulped it down while he picked up the cartons of food from the floor. Most of the fried rice had spilled out so he swept it up, but all the while, his mind raced with ideas of how to stop the horror depicted in the photos. He took a long draught of the beer, wiping his arm across his mouth afterward. His goal was to consume enough to relax him so that he could sleep, but a small part of his mind wished he had enough alcohol on hand to erase the photos from his memory. He finished off the beer and chucked the bottle into the trash.
Mark pulled out a second beer and flipped the cap off as he plopped onto the barstool. Why had the camera chosen to show him these photos? Did it really think he could do something about them? He tilted the bottle, already a little buzzed from the effects of drinking the first beer so quickly on a relatively empty stomach. The second eggroll was still warm so he ate it between sips just to put something in his stomach besides alcohol. The goal was to relax, not become wasted.
His common sense struggled to convince him that the camera was just a mechanical device. It didn’t think. It didn’t know that he was helpless to change some things. Maybe this act of violence wasn’t really meant for him to change. After all, how could he do it alone? The cold sweat of fear drenched him. If he failed, how many thousands would die? Both towers were billowing smoke in the photos. The Pentagon looked like a side of it had exploded and the other photo, with the plane heading into the field…he shuddered at the terror those passengers would know just before impact. Tomorrow was a Tuesday, so likely all three buildings would be full of employees at work. His hand shook and the bottle rattled as he set it down.
The responsibility for saving all those lives stacked on his shoulders like a thousand bricks. Taking a deep breath, he blew it out and leaning his elbows on the breakfast counter, he massaged the back of his neck. He hadn’t asked for this. Since when did purchasing an old camera involve a lifelong commitment to saving the world one photo at a time? There had been no promise—no contract—presented to him forcing him to prevent events depicted in the photos. Sure, he had changed a few things, and had made a difference in quite a few lives, but it was usually just one life at a time.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to change the outcome of the photos, God only knew, he begged for nothing else, but the magnitude of the tragedy and the multiple focal points made it seem like an impossible task. He had no clue where to start.
He longed to share the burden of knowledge with someone. Jessie. As a detective, she would have more experience with something like this, or at least know whom to contact. His fingers closed once more over the phone, but he hesitated. Did he have time to explain the camera tonight and if he did, would she believe him? As a cop, she would want proof and all he had were the photos. If someone had shown him pictures like these two years ago, he would have assumed they were doctored. Jessie would be even more skeptical.
Mark released the phone when he remembered that even if he could convince her of the photos’ authenticity, she was out with her sister’s family tonight. His time would be better spent looking up numbers of authorities rather than wasted by trying to contact her, and then convince her to come over. It wasn’t something he could explain on the phone. Tomorrow he would have more information, and then he could attempt the difficult task of making her believe the photos were authentic and would become reality unless they could stop whoever caused the tragedy.
It was after midnight when he fell into a restless sleep. On his bedside was a pad of paper alongside a sheet of paper with numbers to the FBI, police, ATF, American and United Airlines, some of the major airports across the country and even the White House. He had always been too busy to spend much time on the Internet, but he did some searches and found the non-Chicago numbers listed. He knew the White House was a last resort and he wouldn’t ever be connected to anyone important, but he figured it couldn’t hurt to have it on hand. The pad was to write down the details as soon when he awoke.
Mark tossed and turned, trying his best to relax, but it wasn’t happening. With a sigh, he flipped onto his back and folded his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. How many people were going to sleep for the last time tonight unless he found a way to stop the photos from coming true? He closed his eyes and tried to change the direction of his thoughts. Sleep had to come, it just had to. But instead of sleep, his vision was plagued with images of the planes crashing into the Towers and the Pentagon.
Eventually, his eyes became heavy and he drifted off, only to jerk awake every time as if his mind was fending off the dreaded dreams. After the third time, he sat on the edge of the bed, scrubbing his hands down his face and yawning. Through eyes gritty with fatigue, he noted the time, 2:11 a.m. He groaned. Half the night was gone and he hadn’t dreamed at all yet. What if the dreams didn’t come? Mark had a sneaking suspicion that he wouldn’t be absolved of guilt if he didn’t have a dream depicting the events. The photos showed the airlines at least. If he went dreamless the rest of the night, he would have those clues to pass along. The security office at the World Trade Center could be notified, and the same with the Pentagon. At least some people might be saved if he could convince someone to believe him. He padded into the kitchen and drank a glass of water. He prayed that just getting up and moving around would could alter the pattern of suddenly pulling out of the clutches of sleep just as it was getting him in its grasp.
The photos were still on the kitchen counter, and reluctantly, he spread them out for one more look as he sipped the water. Afterward, he went back to bed, and this time when sleep caught him, he didn’t escape.
“Come on…come on!” Mark glanced at his watch and paced between the breakfast bar and the sofa. It was seven-thirty already—less than twenty minutes until the first plane would hit. The first planes to crash were probably already in the air or on the runway ready to take off and here he was on hold still on both his landline and his cellphone.
He had been awake for hours already, calling all the numbers on his list, and with the knowledge from the dream, adding a few more, including the New York Fire Department. So far, nobody had taken him seriously. They had asked for his name and number, but then said they were transferring him to someone else. Usually by the third transfer, the call was disconnected. If it wasn’t disconne
cted, he was left on hold so long he finally had to hang up so he could move onto the next number.
The cell was currently on hold for Logan Airport. It was his second attempt with them. The first call had been routed to Lost and Found. He guessed they heard him ask for security and just assumed he was complaining about lost luggage. His intention was to stop the flight from taking off, but as the minutes ticked by, he felt the opportunity to keep the plane safely on the ground slipping away.
On the landline, he waited for the FBI to come back to the line. At least they seemed to listen to his story before telling him to hold for some agent. What the hell was taking everyone so long?
The music stopped playing on the Logan call. Finally.
“Yes, I explained to the last guy that you have to stop American Airlines Flight 11 from taking off if it hasn’t already. No, this isn’t a joke. Listen, there are hijackers on it and they’re going to…no, I’m not on the plane, but—wait, please listen…don’t put me on hold again. Hello?”
Mark pulled the cellphone away from his ear and looked at the screen, uncertain if they had disconnected him or put him on hold. The screen was still lit and showing the number so he was on hold. There was no music this time.
The FBI line still crackled with various clicks. Did that mean his call was being transferred around to different people?
Mark Taylor: Genesis (Prequel in the Mark Taylor Series) Page 12