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

by M. P. McDonald

  Spitting out the vile taste, he flushed the toilet and moved to the sink to wash, scooping some water into his mouth and swishing it around. He dried his hands on a towel hanging over the shower curtain. He reached for the doorknob, but stopped and pulled the photo out of his back pocket, just to make sure. The picture had only one similarity with the one he’d put in his pocket only minutes before. The baby was still Christy, but now, she was grinning at the camera, showing off two pearly white bottom teeth. It was official. He’d erased another photo.

  There was a knock on the door a second before Mark opened it.

  “You okay?” It was the guy from the hall. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.

  Mark nodded and motioned towards the toilet “Yeah. Just feeling the nerves. Sorry for barging in.”

  The man laughed and stuck out a hand. “No problem. I’m Jason.”

  “Mark.” He clasped the man’s hand and gave it a shake.

  Jason gave Mark a speculative look. “A few minutes before that happened,” he pointed his chin towards the hall, “someone buzzed my apartment, saying they had to get in—that it was an emergency.”

  Mark tried to play it cool as he edged towards the hallway. “Yeah?”

  “That was you, wasn’t it?” It was a statement, not a question.

  “I...uh…”

  Jason waved a hand and cut him off. “No worries, dude. I was just curious. I had a grandfather who used to get premonitions. It was spooky. Never thought I’d meet someone else like that. Glad I let you in.”

  Rattled and still shaking from the flood of adrenaline, Mark could only nod. He breathed a sigh of relief when Jason motioned for him to go first as they went out to the hall.

  They watched as the paramedics started an IV on the protesting Christy, and he winced at the blood oozing around the IV site. Poor little thing. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to find a Chicago police officer behind him.

  “Sir, can I ask you a few questions?”

  Mark shoved his hands into his pockets to hide the shaking and shrugged. “Sure.”

  He asked Mark’s name and for some ID. After speaking some cop code into his shoulder radio, he glanced at Mark’s driver’s license. “You don’t live here, so why were you in the building?”

  Mark pulled at the collar of his shirt under his coat. Necessity forced him to lie in these situations and he hated it, but the truth was far too complicated. Experience allowed his story to slip easily off his tongue. “I intended to visit a friend, and when I got to the building, someone was coming out, so rather than buzz, I just caught the door. When I got up here, I realized I had the wrong building.” He forced a laugh. “My buddy’s building looks a lot like this one and I guess I got them mixed up.” Mark shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. He was rambling and decided to cut the explanation short. “It’s about time my faulty memory came in handy.”

  Luck was with him and the officer chuckled. “It sure did. You did a great job.”

  Mark dipped his head as heat rushed up his cheeks. “Thanks.”

  The cop’s radio squawked, and in the midst of indecipherable code, Mark heard his own name.

  The officer cocked his head, his gaze fixed on Mark as he reached up to key the mic. “10-9?”

  The message was repeated and the officer tensed, his eyes cold as he acknowledged it and requested back-up. With one hand hovering over his weapon, he pointed at Mark with the other. “Turn around and place your hands on the wall.”

  Confused, Mark hesitated. “What...why?”

  “Hands on the wall. Now!”

  The commanding tone jolted Mark into action and he nearly tripped in his haste to comply. ”Listen, sir, can I just ask—”

  “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. The officer grabbed Mark’s arm. “I’ve been told to bring you in for questioning.”

  “Who wants to talk to me? Why?”

  The few people still milling in the hallway fell silent.

  The cop glanced at the watching crowd and hesitated. “Unpaid parking tickets.”

  Parking tickets? Since when did they go to this much trouble for parking tickets? What the hell was going on? He twisted to see the cop’s face. “I don’t owe on any tickets. What’s this really about?”

  Jason stepped forward and pulled out his wallet. “Look, officer, the dude just saved a baby. What does he owe? I’ll pay it.”

  “Step aside; this isn’t any of your affair.”

  “Come on, man, don’t be a hard-ass.” Jason smiled at the cop, and gestured towards Mark. “I mean, this guy doesn’t exactly look like Charles Manson.”

  Jason’s attempt at humor backfired when the cop offered to let Jason accompany Mark.

  Jason glared at the cop before casting an apologetic look at Mark. “Sorry. I tried.”

  Mark nodded. His face burned as the bystanders—the same people who’d cheered him just a few minutes before—now pointed fingers, and whispered to each other.

  The cop’s fingers dug into Mark’s bicep. “Come on. You got some people waiting to meet you.”

  “Who?” This was going way too far for a few tickets that he couldn’t even remember getting. “You sure you got the right Mark Taylor?”

  The fingers tightened again as the cop frog-marched him towards the elevator. Mark balked. This was crazy. When the cop pressed him forward, he didn’t think, he just reacted, jerking his arm free. “Quit pushing me!” The second the words left his mouth, he wanted to suck them back in.

  “Get down! Right now. On your knees.” The cop pulled his baton and prodded Mark with it.

  “Whoa! Calm down. I just want to know the truth. I have that right, don’t I?”

  “I’m not going to tell you again.” The radio blasted a sharp tone, and Mark started at the sudden noise.

  The cop mistook Mark’s reflex and swung the baton. Mark ducked his head and the blow landed with a thud against his shoulder. Pain rocketed down his arm like he’d touched a live wire. He sank to his knees. Two more blows landed on his back. He bit his lip to keep from crying out as he fell face-down on the floor, his nose buried in the dank, musty carpet.

  The bystanders yelled at the cop while the cop shouted for them to shut up. Without pausing, the officer ordered Mark to lie down. Confused, Mark attempted to lift his face away from the nasty floor to tell him he was already lying down, but a sudden sharp pressure in the middle of his back pinned him to the floor.

  He fought to breathe as his arms were wrenched behind him and cuffed. He managed to turn his head, the skin on his face pulling painfully taut as he sucked in air.

  The door from the stairwell burst open and three more officers ran towards them, pulling their batons as they charged down the hall. Two men in suits followed, their manner and attitude exuding an aura of power and authority.

  The first to reach Mark flashed a badge at him, but Mark couldn’t get a clear look from his angle on the floor.

  “I’m Special Agent Johnson and this is Special Agent Monroe. We have a warrant for your arrest as a material witness to terrorist acts against the United States.”

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  BONUS MATERIAL

  Spoiler Warning!

  The following bonus content may contain spoilers for No Good Deed: Book One in the Mark Taylor Series. May also have a few spoilers for March Into Hell and Deeds of Mercy.

  No Good Deed was the first book I wrote in this series and in the course of writing it, I must have written at least another fifty thousand words that never made the final cut. Some of the scenes were favorites of mine but fell under the ax because I decided to take a different path with the plot. Some parts of the scenes you may recognize, as if I liked a particular phrase, I incorporated it elsewhere in the book or e
ven the series, hence the spoiler warning for the whole series, even though these deleted scenes come entirely from variations of the No Good Deed manuscript.

  For instance, this first deleted scene was part of the original first chapter of the book. If you haven’t yet read No Good Deed, and plan to, you may want to skip this scene for now, but you can always come back later.

  Click, swipe, or tap through to the next page to begin reading the deleted scenes.

  The Original First Chapter of No Good Deed

  Mark Taylor pulled the camera off the bottom shelf of the nightstand. The metal body gleamed now, but it was dusty and scratched when he found it in a bazaar in Afghanistan. If there had been a manufacturer's plate on it originally, it was long gone. He was sure it was one of the first thirty-five millimeters ever made, but age hadn't destroyed the perfect lens. The craftsmanship that had gone into the device was evident in its solid construction and clean lines. He hefted it, feeling the familiar thrum of energy. The source of the power remained a mystery. Had it always existed in the camera? Mark traced a finger along the rim of the lens. How did it trigger the dreams linked to the photos? Nothing about the metal and glass gave a clue. It was simple. Basic. Extraordinary.

  Every day, Mark used the camera and every evening, he developed the film. On the evenings he developed what he termed a pre-photo, he studied it. When he awoke the next morning, he would jot down as many details as he could recall. was like a cosmic puzzle of photographs and dreams. If he was clever and quick enough to fit the pieces together, he could change a person's fate. The pre-photo subject's tragic image would fade to the intended subject matter. It was still hard for him to accept that he had the power to make such a difference in people's lives. The difference between life and death. It was a responsibility that he had never sought, but it was his now. Mark returned the camera to the shelf. The moment he had first held the camera, the yoke had settled on his shoulders.

  He slid today's photo beneath the paper, and sat on the edge of the bed absently rubbing his left thigh, massaging the scar through his sweatpants. The damp Chicago weather had seeped through the brick walls and settled into his muscles. The shower had helped, but the leg still felt stiff. His father had recommended some exercises to strengthen it, but he wouldn't comment on how the injury had occurred. That the bullet wound was a souvenir from saving an undercover officer didn't interest him. Mark had almost brought up the camera then, but his father had ranted about Chicago and how dangerous the city was.

  Mark grit his teeth and prodded the muscles, pushing deeper and working out a knot. His parents thought he had been injured trying to take photos, and his dad accused him of being reckless. He could still hear the scorn in his dad's voice as when he'd said that getting a few pictures wasn't important enough to risk his life.

  Mark stretched the leg out and flopped back on the bed. After thirty-five years, he didn't need his father's approval. He sat up with a groan. That didn't stop him from seeking it anyway.

  It still ticked him off that whoever controlled the magic that infused his camera hadn't seen fit to warn him of his own peril. Would it have made a difference? Would he have still taken risk of saving the undercover police officer if his own image had appeared beside that of the slain cop? He liked to think he would, but, grimacing as he flexed his leg, he wasn't a hundred percent certain.

  Mark scrubbed a hand down his face and took a deep breath. It had been over two years since he had begun getting the photos followed by the dreams, and so far, he had never had to face his own mortality in an image. With luck, he never would.

  The door buzzer echoed in the loft, and Mark glanced at the clock, puzzled. He wasn't expecting anyone. He rubbed his wet hair and ambled from the sleeping area out to the living room and pressed the talk button on the intercom by the door. "Yeah?"

  "Hi, it's Jessie. Can I come up for a minute?"

  A jolt of adrenaline shot into his blood at the sound of her voice. "Sure." He buzzed her in, then strode to the coffee table and grabbed the empty pizza box, and snagged a dirty glass off an end table.

  Jessica. Their last date had been the best yet. Dinner had been wonderful and afterwards, they had strolled along Michigan Avenue. Holiday lights had set a festive mood. Mark had even welcomed the chill in the air when it had given him reason to put his arm around her shoulders and pull her close. They had stopped on the bridge that spanned the Chicago River, then leaned against the railing. Together, they watched the water dance and sparkle while snow scented the air. After telling her a funny story about a recent attempt to take a portrait of a rambunctious toddler, she had laughed and turned towards him, her eyes shining. He had to kiss her.

  Mark grinned at the memory as he deposited the pizza box in the trash and the glass in the sink. She was so tough in her job as a city detective that it had come as a welcome surprise to see another side of her. A softer side.

  A few seconds later, he greeted her. "Hey. Come on in." Mark closed the door and followed her, motioning towards the sofa. "Have a seat." He wasn't used to seeing her in jeans with her blond hair hanging loose. He decided he could get used to it and smiled as she perched on the edge of the couch. "What's up?"

  "Sorry I didn't call first." Jessie tucked her hair behind her ear and took a deep breath. "The FBI sent us a list of names. They want to know if we have files on any of them." She took a deep breath and continued, "Your name is on the list."

  A knot formed in Mark's stomach and he turned from her searching gaze. He hadn't had any run-ins with the Chicago police since he was shot. That was old news by now. "Why?

  "One of the detectives in my office has a buddy with the FBI. The other night, they were out drinking and the FBI guy was a little free and loose with some rumors. Rumors about you and September eleventh."

  His hand shook as he raked it through his hair. The FBI? Damn. The one time he'd had contact with them, he had initiated it and they hadn't listened. "What did he say?"

  She bent her head and clasped her hands, one thumb tapping against the other. "I know it sounds crazy, but he heard that you were suspected to be involved with the terrorist attacks." Jessie watched him, her scrutiny making him squirm. "Why would he say those things, Mark?"

  It felt as if a twelve pound bowling ball had slid down his esophagus and landed with a crash in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't sure which was worse, the accusation or the desperation in Jessie's voice. They had only been dating a short while, but they had known each other for over a year. How could she harbor any suspicions of that magnitude? Mark shook his head and shoved to his feet. "What do you think?"

  He strode to the window, paused, then turned back to Jessie, hands on his hips. How could he explain it? The pre-photos didn't happen on command. Some days, he got nothing, other days, several pictures and dreams. Even if she did believe him, then what? Would the camera be confiscated by the authorities to be torn apart and analyzed? Meanwhile, how many people would be doomed to die? People that he could have rescued?

  Their eyes held as he stood frozen with indecision. Her eyes narrowed. He couldn't stand to see the doubt settle in their depths and turned towards the window. He slumped and leaned his forehead against the cold glass.

  To the northeast, the lights from the Magnificent Mile lit up the December sky. The John Hancock Building towered above, the twin antennas stabbing into the black velvet sky. September eleventh. That date would haunt all of the country, but there was the added reason for him. On September tenth, he had developed preview pics of the horror, courtesy of his mystical camera. He had tried to warn authorities. Mark clenched his fists to control his fury at the futility of his attempts. Nobody had listened to him.

  "Talk to me." There was a creak of leather and then the sound of her footsteps as she crossed the hardwood floor bordering the living room. She leaned back against the window frame facing him. "What's going on, Mark?"

  "Nothing's going on." Mark exhaled deeply and watched as his breath fogged the glass. "I made som
e calls the morning of the attacks. I'd had a dream and it was so vivid...I just thought I should let someone know." It was the truth even if it wasn't complete. "It was stupid."

  Her brow furrowed. "You dreamed of it before it happened?" Skepticism laced her voice.

  Mark shrugged and focused on a few pedestrians hurrying through the blustery evening on the sidewalk three floors below. "I wasn't sure exactly what was going to happen, but I felt compelled to report it. Lot of good it did." He couldn't keep the bitterness from tainting the comment.

  "I'm sorry." There was a pause, and then, "Even if you did dream it, how could you have thought that the authorities would act upon your dream? It's pretty thin evidence."

  Mark nodded. "Yeah." His voice was thick and he swallowed hard. He knew that she didn't exactly believe his story, but he could see her relief that he had an explanation.

  Jessie stepped closer and rested a hand against his jaw. "Look, let's just forget I ever heard the rumor, okay? I'm sure it'll all be straightened out." She smiled and said teasingly, "I mean, look at you. You're the picture of the All-American boy--all grown up, of course."

  Mark let out a shaky laugh and rubbed his jaw against her palm. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult."

  She raised up on her tiptoes and pulled him down, her lips brushing his. "Oh, it's a compliment."

  "I'll take it," he murmured as he ran his hands up into her hair, cupping her head and deepening the kiss.

  "Gail, tip your chin down just a hair, and Jason, bring your hands up to her waist...that's it. Perfect." Mark Taylor snapped the shot. The engaged couple relaxed their pose while Mark made an adjustment to his lens. The lens didn't require an adjustment, but Mark had to stall them. His dream from last night had them leaving his studio and getting killed right outside his building when a delivery truck ran the red light at the corner. Timing was everything. If they left at the wrong time, they would end up a smear on the pavement, but if they left at the right time, they would get married and presumably have a long and happy life.