NO GOOD DEED (2 page)

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 exuded 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 material witness to terrorist acts against the United States.”

CHAPTER TWO

Jessie looked up at the knock on her door jamb. “Hey, Dan. What’s up?”

“Lieutenant wants to talk to you.” Her partner avoided her questioning gaze and before she could ask him what it was about, he turned away and rushed down the hall to the men’s room. Figures he’d hideout in the one place she couldn’t follow him. Whatever. She grabbed her jacket and shrugged it on and strode to her boss’s office.

“Excuse me, sir? You want to see me?” She glanced at the file he held in his hands.

Lieutenant O’Hanrahan glanced up from a paper he was reading. The desktop was covered with more papers. “Yes, Detective Bishop, I do. Have a seat.” He gestured to the chair on her side of the desk. He put the paper on top of the others, and straightened the mess into a neat stack, before slipping them into a folder.

Jessie waited, but his obvious stalling made her nervous. “So...?”

“Detective Bishop, I’ve heard from various sources, that you’re dating a man named Mark Taylor?”

Jessie straightened, squaring her shoulders. Is that all this was about? She’d already talked to Internal Affairs about this. “Yes, I am, but it’s okay, sir. I discussed it with IA and made sure that I wasn’t breaking any regulations. Mark had a few scrapes with us before, but he was cleared every time.”

O’Hanrahan nodded. “Yes, I’m aware of that, but I’m afraid this is different. Your...boyfriend is in custody right now—”

“What? Why?” Jessie scooted to the edge of her seat. What had Mark gotten into this time? It had only been, what? Four months since the last time he’d been questioned when he interfered with an investigation. He promised it wouldn’t happen again. She gripped the sides of the chair. He’d better hope they locked him up, because if not, she was going to kill him.

“Hear me out, I wasn’t finished. It’s not us who have him—it’s the Feds. Taylor had a run in with one of our guys, and when it came over the radio, the Feds called and said they want him. It seems they were preparing to arrest him, when lo and behold, his name pops up on the scanners.”

All thoughts of murder flew from her mind. “The FBI? What do they want with Mark?” Her pulse quickened.

“It has to do with September 11th. They want to question him about it.” He held up a hand when Jessie opened her mouth to ask more questions. “Hold it, that’s all I know. I just thought I’d give you a heads-up.”

It took Jessie a few seconds to realize that O’Hanrahan was done. “Sir, would I be able to talk to him?”

Her lieutenant regarded her with a mixture of pity and regret. “I can send the request up the chain, but it’s doubtful. At least, not right away. I do have the name of the special agent in charge. It’s Johnson. “

“Thank you.” At least it was a place to start. She stood, amazed that her legs held her. “Did they take him to the Metropolitan Correctional Center?”

O’Hanrahan nodded. “I expect FBI will have some questions for you as well.”

That hadn’t occurred to her, but she’d welcome the interview. Mark had some peculiarities, but she had no doubt he was a good guy.

* * *

A bead of sweat raced down Mark’s back, and he could feel more gathering on his brow. The room stank of stale cigarettes and body odor. He picked at a cigarette burn on the scarred table. How long were they going to keep him waiting? It had to have been at least an hour, but there were no clocks in the room so he didn’t know for sure. The window on his right reflected only the inside of the room and he knew it had to be a two-way mirror.

The door opened and Mark’s heart tripled its rate. Even though he wanted to straighten the mess out and had wished someone would come talk to him, a shiver of fear shook his body. Johnson led a new group of agents into the room. He carried a folder and set it on the table across from Mark.

The agent sat and took out a pair of glasses, perching them on the end of his nose. Mark hunched over the table, keenly aware of the two remaining Feds flanking him.

Johnson tapped the folder with one index finger. “I have some very disturbing information about you, Mr. Taylor. Especially in light of recent events.”

“There’s an explanation. This is all just a misunderstanding.” Mark’s head ached and he rubbed his temples.

“Do you admit that you made a series of phone calls on the morning of September 11th to various government agencies?” He opened the folder and sorted through several documents. Running a finger down a line of print, he added, “Calls that began a full three hours before the planes hit?”

“Well, yeah. Of course I admit that. I left my name.”

“How did you come by your information?” Johnson leaned towards Mark and said, “And I must caution you that withholding important details will only make it go worse for you.”

“It’s gonna sound crazy, but hear me out.” He tried to laugh, but it fell flat. “See, the thing is, I have this camera and when I take pictures, the photos sometimes come out much differently than...” He hesitated. How could he explain this in a way that would make sense?

Johnson cut in, “Get on with it.”

Mark swallowed. “Sorry.” He wiped his hands on his thighs and darted a look at the other agents. “The photos—they show up in my dreams, only with more detail. And my dreams...they come true.” Johnson narrowed his eyes and Mark rushed on, “It’s the truth and because I see what happens before it happens, I can change it...sometimes.”

He closed his eyes as the visions of the planes hitting the towers played in his mind. “Only, it didn’t work on September eleventh. There wasn’t enough time. That dream...well, I’ve had some bad ones before, but...” He shuddered and opened his eyes, but couldn’t get the images out of his head. He ground the heel of his hand against his brow as if he could erase them.

“Stop!” Johnson slapped his hand down on the table top.

Mark jumped, then froze.

“I don’t have time for this crap. We have tapes of your calls. We have records that you traveled to Afghanistan two years ago. We know that you associated with Mohommad Aziz, a suspected terrorist.”

Mo? A terrorist? Mark didn’t buy it. He had known the guy for years. He was no more a terrorist than Fred Flintstone.

Johnson took a sheet of paper out of the folder, grabbed pen from his shirt pocket and shoved them both across the table. “Please write down everything you did and the names of the people you met in Afghanistan.”

Anger simmered inside of him and Mark tried to shove it down. He eased the paper back towards Johnson. “I already admitted I made the calls. You have the tapes.” Glancing at the two agents beside him, and then back to Johnson, he shrugged. “Yeah, I did go to Afghanistan. It was work related. Mo Aziz is a free-lance photojournalist I’ve known for about five years now.”

Agent Johnson’s eyes narrowed. “Oh really? How interesting.” He jotted something on a note pad.

“Listen, would ya? He’s no terrorist. He’s a good guy. He wanted to do a story on women’s rights, or lack of them, actually, in that country. Mo had some connections there, so we were able to go places where outsiders aren’t normally welcome. He interviewed the people and I took the photos. It was a hell of a book and I was proud to help with the photos.”

Johnson nodded, his pen scratching across the paper. “Good. Where can I find a copy of this book? So we can verify your story.”

Mark sighed. “Unfortunately, it was never published. Nobody was interested in the plight of the women of Afghanistan at the time.” He scratched the back of his neck.” Last I talked to Mo, he was still shopping it around.”

“So, you have no proof that this book exists?”

“I have my negatives,” Mark said. “You’re welcome to see them.” Should he have offered them? Maybe he should ask for a lawyer. His hope that this would all be quickly sorted out, faded.

“Believe me, we will. In fact, a search warrant on your home has already been executed.” Head bent, the agent continued writing.

“Oh.”
Shit
. He didn’t have anything to hide, but hated the idea of strangers going through his things.

“That make you nervous?” Johnson raised his eyes and smiled for the first time. Mark wanted to punch the smug look right off his face.

“No.” His voice shook with anger so he cleared his throat. It wouldn’t help matters to lose his temper.

Johnson motioned to the agent on the left. “Why don’t you get Mr. Taylor something to drink?” He looked at Mark. “You have any preference? Coffee? Soda?”

He wanted to refuse, but fear and anxiety had caused his mouth to feel like cotton. “Water’s fine.”

Mark tapped his foot on the floor, his arms crossed as Johnson thumbed through a stack of papers in the folder. What could they have in there about him? He started to lean forward, hoping to get a glimpse, but Johnson glared at him.

The agent returned with a bottle of water and set it in front of Mark. Before he could take a drink, Johnson said, “So, why don’t we start over. I’m willing to pretend that this conversation has just begun. What do you say, Mr. Taylor?”

Mark put the bottle down untouched. “I don’t have anything to say that I haven’t already said.” Should he tell them about his other dreams? They could go question some of the people who had been in them. People he had saved. There were dozens of them. Mark didn’t know all of their names, but he remembered some. They would vouch for him. “If you’ve done all this fact-digging on me, then you’ll know about other times I’ve had dreams that came true. The Chicago P.D. knows. Have you talked to them?”

Johnson chuckled. “They know you all right. Let’s see, Detective Cruz says that you spoiled three months worth of work when you tackled him just as he was about to make an undercover buy. They could have arrested a dozen gang members in that one.”

“Cruz was going to be shot. Did he mention that?” It should have been part of the file. The guy Hanson was buying from had been killed when a rival gang sped past spraying bullets as they went.

“That’s just one of a very long list of incidents you’ve been in with the police, so I don’t think you’re high on their list of favorite Chicago citizens.”

Mark’s leg bounced and he swallowed. “You make it sound like I’m a criminal...or a terrorist.” He folded his arms around the back of his head. The headache had reached migraine level and the bright lights stabbed into his brain. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, I need to talk to a lawyer.”

CHAPTER THREE

Mark ground the heel of his hand against his forehead. How many days had he been here already? A court-appointed lawyer had been in to see him, but the legal mumbo-jumbo had gone in one ear and out the other. All he knew was that his calls on the day of the attacks and his trip to Afghanistan two years earlier had caused enough suspicion to get him locked up.

He slumped on the edge of the hard bed and buried his head in his hands. The questions they’d asked made no sense. Mark’s eyes shot to the door as a key scraped in the lock. His lawyer said he wouldn’t be back for several days. As far as Mark knew, nobody else was aware that he was here. A guard entered, a length of chain held loose in his hands. Instead of taking Mark out of the room, he snapped a cuff around Mark’s ankle and attached it to metal ring embedded in the floor. He was no better than a dog.

The guard left only to return a few minutes later with Jessie trailing behind him. Mark tucked his tethered foot behind his other one, but the chain rattled and he didn’t miss the shock in Jessie’s eyes when her gaze followed the sound.

“Jessie.” He tried to smile and pretend he hadn’t noticed her hesitation, but heat flooded his cheeks. How much did she know? After the initial shock, her face had frozen into a neutral expression.