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

by M. P. McDonald

  His dream hadn't given him all the details. They never did. The photo taken with his other camera, the special one, gave more information, but also hadn't included a time. It did include the offending vehicle. Now, he just had to keep an eye peeled for the white box truck with the big golden fish swimming on the side.

  Mark went to the window, pretending to adjust the amount of light he let into his studio. The corner was just below him, and about a block south, he spotted the truck. Another truck had stopped at the light, and the fish truck switched lanes just before the intersection. Maybe the driver hadn't seen the light, or maybe he wasn't paying attention, but whatever the reason, he never stopped and just sped through the red light. Horns blasted and tires squealed, but the truck made it through without mishap. Mark grinned. Sometimes God threw him a bone, and it was just that easy.

  He turned back to the couple. Jason's hand caressed Gail's jaw, angling her head towards his. Their eyes locked and they had obviously forgotten Mark. It didn't offend him in the least, in fact, he loved it. A relaxed subject made for the best photos. He raised the camera and snapped off three pictures as Jason leaned in to kiss his bride-to-be.

  "Hey!" Gail pulled away at the click of the shutter and turned to Mark. "That's not fair!" Her grin and Jason's laughter belied the tone, and Mark chuckled as he got off one more shot. The couple wasn't perfectly posed, but the mischief in Jason's eyes and Gail's blush and bashful smile made it the perfect shot. One day, he hoped to have a photo of Jessie like this.

  A knock on his door echoed in the loft. Lowering the camera, he hesitated, not wanting to stop now that he was getting some great photos. His next appointment wasn't due for over an hour. Another knock blasted through the loft. "Sorry for the interruption guys. Let's take a few minutes break while I get that."

  Mark stepped over a tangle of cords, steadying a soft box as he brushed by. More pounding on the door rattled the windows. It had better not be the guy from downstairs again. Did he expect Mark and his clients to float over the floor? "Hey, I'm coming. Quit beating on the damn door already." He jogged through the loft, slid to a halt, and opened the door. “What?”

  "Mark Taylor?"

  A group of men in suits crowded the hallway. Mark's hand tightened on the doorknob. This couldn't be good.

  "I'm Agent Thomas with the Washington office of the FBI.” His dark eyes, framed by bushy eyebrows, focused on Mark and showed no hint of friendliness. “We have a warrant for your arrest.” The man flashed a badge and motioned with his arm to the men behind him. “Secure the site.”

  Irritation changed to confusion at the sight of the badge. Stunned, he stepped back as four of them pushed their way in. Even though Jessie had mentioned the rumor, he never thought it would come to this. He just needed a chance to explain.

  Mark staggered as one man pushed him against the wall and frisked him. Removing the camera from around Mark's neck, he set it on the table beside the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Mark saw it wobble and almost topple off the pile of junk mail.

  "Hey!" He reached to steady it, but a shove to his back jammed his face against the wall. Mark grunted and bit back a curse as his cheekbone scraped against the brick. A hand entered his field of vision and snatched the camera.

  The agent yanked Mark's arms behind his back, and Mark strained to look over his shoulder. “Hold on! If you'll just listen to me for a second.” The cuffs bit into his flesh as they clicked closed.

  “Save it. You're under arrest as a material witness for terrorist acts against the United States.” The man's voice boomed in the loft as he spun Mark face forward. Another agent grabbed Mark's right elbow.

  Mark's knees buckled and only a hard jerk on his elbow kept him upright. "You can't be serious.” His stomach twisted as a cold sweat broke over him. He felt bile rise and feared he was going to vomit.

  Jason and Gail wandered out to the main room. Their engagement photos had been nearly complete. Mark straightened and tried to collect his composure. Once he explained everything, he was sure the FBI would realize this was a colossal mistake and let him go. One of the agents asked the man and woman for identification, and Mark wanted to die of shame.

  “Okay, you two can go.”

  Averting their faces, the couple hurried past Mark, their shoes clattering on the wooden steps. At least they weren't going to be dragged into this too. Chances were, he'd never see them again.

  “Come on.” The charge guy grabbed him by an elbow and another man tugged on the other. They dragged him down the steps and outside. A small crowd had gathered on the walk beside his building and Mark dipped his head, unwilling to look at anyone. How would he ever face these people again?

  Jessie tossed a file folder onto her desk. It joined a half dozen other files containing suspects flagged by the FBI. Per orders from the Chief of Police, all arrests from the last two years needed to be checked with an eye out for any possible connections to terrorism. She sighed and tucked her hair behind her ear. It was going to be a long day. She glanced at the office coffee pot and swore. It was empty again. It seemed like she was the only one to ever made a fresh pot.

  “Don't worry, I'll make the coffee."

  Dan Mekowski looked up from his computer and nodded. “Great. I could use a cup.”

  “Coming right up.” Her sarcasm was lost on her partner. Dan brought in donuts at least twice a week, and when she had begged him to stop, he switched to bringing in fresh fruit. She supposed one day, he would make the coffee and she could bring in the goodies.

  Three hours later, her eyes burned, and she stretched. She appreciated that this was a huge job and didn't mind doing it, but some of the connections they were supposed to look for seemed so remote. The obvious suspects, those here illegally or with strong connections to the Middle East had already been sorted into a pile to be questioned. The files remaining on Jessie's desk weren't so cut and dried. Some were U.S. citizens arrested for misdemeanors and who just happened to have Arabic last names. Nothing else in their records sent up red flags.

  Reaching for one of the files, she flipped it open, only to realize it wasn't the one she wanted. She rubbed her lower back and twisted it to work out a kink. “Dan, I have to take a break. These names are all beginning to melt into one big mish-mash of letters. What do you say we go get something to eat?”

  Dan nodded, and then rolled his head. The audible pop made Jessie cringe. He saw it and grinned. “Yeah, I could use some food.” He stood and put his suit coat on. “How about lunch at that little hot-dog place?”

  “Fine by me. I'll drive.” Jessie grabbed her purse.

  The route to the restaurant would take them past Mark's building. Every time she came this way, she couldn't help thinking of him. Their first date had been a flop. He had flaked out on her and had cut the evening short, saying that he didn't feel well. An hour later, she had run to the store to pick up some ice cream, and saw Mark there chatting with the clerk. Just before she had stormed up to him, a guy in the line behind him pulled a gun. She had pulled her gun from her purse and shouted at the young man to drop the weapon and freeze. Instead, he had turned, pointing it at her. Training and instinct kicked in and she began squeezing the trigger at the threat.

  “Jessie! Don't shoot! It's not a real gun.” Mark's voice penetrated and she hesitated. It saved the robber's life. He dropped what turned out to be a very realistic looking water pistol. Instead of killing a fourteen-year old kid, she had arrested him.

  While grateful that she hadn't shot the teen, she couldn't help wondering how Mark had known. Did he get a better look at the weapon, being closer? When she had inspected it up close, it still looked like a real gun. The orange plastic that was supposed to be at the end of the barrel had been covered in black paint. What if Mark had been wrong?

  The next day, he had called, apologizing again for the ruined date and requested a chance to make it up to her. She was unsure It wasn't just about the disastrous date. Her reluctance spun out of the many other odd
dealings she'd had with him. What would her colleagues think? Mark had gained the damning reputation throughout the Chicago police department as a strange duck. Despite that, she couldn't deny the attraction she felt for him. It was more than his good looks, although she admitted to herself that was part of it. She had always had a thing for dark haired men.

  Several times, while questioning him as part of investigations, she looked up and caught a wistful expression on his face. He would look away real fast and she remembered how his face had flushed. When he had finally asked her out to dinner, she knew she should say no. What kind of detective dates a man she's had to question a half a dozen times in regards to various crimes and suspicious incidents? But the hope in his eyes made it impossible to say no.

  The light turned red, so she took the opportunity to take a quick peek down his street to see if his Jeep was parked out front. It was and she felt her stomach tingle with a familiar flutter. She felt like a damn schoolgirl and was glad for the sunglasses that hid her eyes from her partner.

  “What's all that action out front of your boyfriend's building?”

  Jessie lifted her glasses. Three unmarked police cars were parked in front of the building, but at the far end of it. “I have no idea.”

  As they watched, the door to the building opened and a tight knot of men moved down the steps toward the waiting cars. In the center, flanked by four men in suits, walked a tall, dark-haired man in handcuffs. Mark.

  “What the hell?” Dan's voice held the same note of confusion as Jessie's. The light turned green and the car behind her honked impatiently. She pushed down on the accelerator and made a quick right turn at the end of the block. By the time she circled back around, the cars were gone.

  End of the first deleted scenes.

  I found this scene from No Good Deed buried in my files. I can’t recall why I cut it. Possibly it was because I already had a similar scene and didn’t want it to be too repetitive, but I saved it because I liked the imagery in it. I hope you will too. This takes place towards the end of Mark’s imprisonment when he’s close to breaking.

  * * *

  Time seemed to shrink and grow, making it feel like days had passed when it had been only a few hours. One day blended into the next with only sessions in the room to break up the monotony. Then the sessions came less often as other methods came into play. Sometimes, he thought he'd go deaf from the noise and loud music piped into his cell. More than once, he'd curled into a ball with his hands clamped over his ears, rocking at the pain in his head. The incessant sound made thought impossible. Sleep was only a wish. The sleep deprivation wore on him and he'd pace the room, unable to stop himself. Thoughts, jumbled and disjointed, ricocheted through his brain. Even the music seemed to play games with him and he'd hear messages in the lyrics. Was he losing his mind?

  His only respite came with his hour out in the yard. What was the point? One hour a week of peace? Was that worth living for? Mark slumped against the wall of the courtyard, knees pulled up and arms draped over them. He stared at a tuft of withered grass. It was the only vegetation in the courtyard and the hardy blades forced their way out of the cracks in the cement. What choice did he have?

  End of deleted scene.

  This final deleted scene takes place after Mark has moved into an apartment. Remember Bud the landlord? When I started writing him, he wasn’t even going to be a named character, just the mean slum landlord, but something happened, and he acquired a softer side. It is especially evident in this scene that I had to cut simply because it didn’t really add to the plot and I had some feedback that it might slow the story down. Objectively I agreed, but I always loved this little scene. This takes place right after Mark has painted his apartment and has taken on a few other painting jobs for Bud.

  Playing Pool

  Some jobs, Bud paid him cash, others, he knocked a few bucks off the rent. Either way, Mark felt like he came out ahead. The weather eased from brutal cold to spring dampness, and when he wasn’t working at the camera shop or fixing up apartments, he jogged. The freedom of running wherever he wanted never got old.

  One evening, Bud came by with a different request. “Wanna go have a beer?”

  The offer caught Mark completely off guard and he stepped back. “Ah…I, um…”

  Bud scowled. “Jeez, if you don’t wanna go, just say so. Ain’t no skin off my nose.”

  “No…no, that’s not it. I just…I’m surprised, that’s all.” Mark broke into a grin. “You wouldn’t believe how long it’s been since I went out for a beer. I’d love to go.”

  “I’m not gonna be pushing you off the wagon, am I?” Bud peered at him, and raised his hands as if in surrender. “Cause I don’t wanna tempt you if you’re trying to stay dry.”

  Mark grabbed a sweatshirt and threw it on over his t-shirt. “Nope. No worries there. Come on. Let’s go.”

  They shot a few games of pool and lack of practice showed. Mark had to admit he’d never been great at pool, but he could usually hold his own. Tonight, he stunk. Not that he cared. He laughed it off and suspected that Bud let him win the third game.

  He clapped Mark on the shoulder. “Congrats! How about another game?”

  Mark shook his head. “Nah. The Cubs game looks like it just started. How about we catch a few innings?” He’d missed all of last season and it looked like half the team was new. One more thing to catch up on.

  Bud shrugged. “Sounds good.”

  The two men sat in companionable silence, munching peanuts out of bowls on the counter and washing them down with a pitcher of draft. Bud had a rhythm going, peanuts in one hand, beer in the other. Peanuts. Beer. Peanuts. Beer. Mark glanced around the bar. He’d anticipated Bud would drag him to some dive, but this bar was clean, with polished wood and brass accents. Peanuts. Beer. Peanuts. Beer. Mark chuckled and almost wished he hadn’t when the sound disrupted that rhythm.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just a stray thought.” Mark sipped his own beer and focused on the game.

  “So tell me, Taylor, how’d you end up living in one of my dumpy apartments? You just outta prison or something?”

  Mark swallowed hard. Beer wash up inside his nose and set off a fit of coughing. He pinched the bridge of his nose and used the time to come up with an answer. “It’s a long story. Maybe someday I’ll tell you about it.”

  Mark Taylor related writings

  The following selections never appeared in any manuscript. They were written with the intention of using them for my blog or in the case of one, to appear in a collection of drabbles.

  The following is a triple drabble. A regular drabble is a story with exactly 100 words, so a triple drabble is exactly 300 words. Originally this was drabble written for a contest on a now defunct website. I think the contest said we had to use the color red. Recently, I re-wrote it to be more of a flash fiction/triple drabble. It’s probably the darkest thing I’ve ever written.

  Red

  The scent of popcorn and funnel cakes teased Mark’s hunger as he paid for tickets. With a grin, he turned to Jessica. “What do you want to do first?” He loved carnivals and it had been years since he had been to one. Not since before he had been locked up as an enemy combatant.

  Jessica opened her mouth to reply when a photographer approached. “May I take your picture?” Without waiting for an answer, he shoved a ticket stub at Mark. “You can pick up a print when you leave the carnival.”

  It wasn’t the best sales pitch, but Mark didn’t care. He smiled and slung his arm over Jessica’s shoulders. The flash blinded him and red spots danced in his vision.

  Red. He hated the color red.

  It had been the color he saw behind his closed eyelids when they made him stand in one position for hours. It was the color of his hands when they were trapped by the restraints. It was the color of the blood he coughed up after getting slammed in the ribs.

  Red. It was the color of pain and the deep, dark red of anger at the unfairness of it all. It
was the color of frustration that no one believed in his innocence, and the color of sadness as he imagined his parents' grief.

  It was the color of the dogs' snarling mouths and his fear when they lunged. It was the terrifying color of the glowing ember of the guard's cigarette as he held it close to Mark's face and the sizzle as it burned his skin. Red .It was the color of his screams.

  “Mark? How about we get a corndog first. I’m starving.”

  He blinked the last of the spots out of his vision. “Sure. Sounds good.”

  This next drabble was written for a friend who writes books that are a collection of drabbles: Lessons IV: The Dead Carnival and other Morbid Drabbles by Michael Crane. The one above was also submitted to the collection but was too dark and didn’t quite fit the theme. This is the one which appeared in the collection. It’s a true drabble at 100 words. In keeping with the collection theme, this is fun, but somewhat morbid.

  Mark gripped the metal bar pressing him into the seats as he struggled not to slam against the side of the car. Screams stabbed his ears, but the other passengers were just a blur, their terror spurring his own unease. Spinning and falling, his stomach lurched. He knew he shouldn’t have eaten the funnel cake. Or the corndog. The beer-- bad idea too. The car spun faster, whirling and diving. He clutched the hot bar. He wouldn’t make it. Closing his eyes, he swallowed hard.