NO GOOD DEED (6 page)

Occasionally, sounds in the room would register as the men spoke to each other, or a chair creaked, but for the most part, he was lost in his own little world of pain.

A long time later, the chain holding his arms went slack. Mark groaned and collapsed, his legs unable to hold him. He lay on his side and his muscles quivered uncontrollably. The floor felt cool against his body. He grit his teeth at the needles of feeling that returned to his limbs. Nobody touched him, and exhausted, he lay limp. He didn’t think he could move at that moment even if they held a gun to his head. The thought that might actually be their next tactic crossed his mind. He wouldn’t put it past them, so when the footsteps approached, he tried to muster his energy to stand.

“Get the hood off him.” Mark recognized Jim’s voice. He hoped the tears had dried.

When the hood was lifted, Mark took a deep breath. In all his other misery, the suffocating heat in the hood had been the least of his worries, but now that it was gone, he sucked in the fresh air. It felt wonderful. His hair was plastered to his head, and with a groan, he swiped his forehead on his shoulder, but it did no good as every part of his body was soaked with sweat.

Jim leaned over him, his face unreadable. “Stand.”

Mark turned and pushed up from the floor. His legs wobbled, but he made it to a standing position. His chest heaved with the effort.

Jim paced in front of him, then circled Mark, his nose wrinkled in disgust. “Next time we ask for answers, I hope you’ll be more forthcoming.”

Mark couldn’t reply. His throat was raw hamburger, but he shook his head. How much more could he say? What did they want him to say? If only he could figure it out. They demanded a confession and it was the one thing Mark couldn’t give them.

* * *

He collapsed on his bed. He should splash water on his face and get at least some of the sweat off his body, but before the thought could fully form in his mind, he slept.

The light was still just as bright when he woke up and a tray of food sat on the floor. He swung his legs over the side and grunted at the stiffness in his body. He felt like someone had taken a bat to his shoulders, and his calves cramped when he attempted to stand. Mark sucked in a breath and bit his lip as he slowly straightened.

The food beckoned and he shuffled over and took it back to bed to eat. It was an odd combination of eggs and chicken, canned fruit, a slice of bread and tomato juice. He hated tomato juice, but drank it anyway, washing it down with the juice in the fruit cup. After finishing the rest of the meal, he filled the juice cup up with water from his sink and guzzled it.

The water and food revived him a bit and after shoving the tray back out into the hall, he did his best to wash up in the sink. He didn’t have a towel and had to use his blanket to dry off. He even rinsed his t-shirt and wrung it out, hoping it would dry before he had to go on any other excursions.

Mark lay curled on his side with the blanket wrapped around him. The time in the interrogation played over in his mind. Until then, he had believed that they would realize their mistake and that he would be released. The brutal treatment shoved that notion out of his head. He shivered, and pulled the blanket tighter.

The thing that shocked him most was Mo’s statement that implicated him. They had been friends. Maybe they weren’t best friends, but Mark had felt nothing but pride in the book Mo had written. Pride that he had been a part of something that tried to bring an injustice to light. Now, he doubted that there had ever been a book. Why had Mo dragged him along? Just as a cover?

The more he thought back on that trip, the more things he had shrugged off began to make sense. The two days Mo had left him at the hotel to go meet with a family. Mo had told him that the family didn’t want their pictures in the book, and that he was going to use an alias for them. Mark could remain at the hotel. It had made sense at the time. That was when he had gone exploring the city and found the bazaar. If only he had known what a turning point his life would take after that trip.

He rubbed his eyes and wished that they would turn off the damn lights. The constant glare made his head hurt. Mark swung his legs off the bed and stood, dropping the blanket in a heap. His shoulders ached and he knew that his legs would be sore in the morning. Or evening. Or whenever the hell it was.

A window high in the wall teased him with its blacked out rectangle. At first, he thought it was nighttime, then he studied it, noting that the small rectangle of plexi-glass had been covered on the outside with something black. He balled his fists in fury as he recognized how intent they were on breaking him. Even daylight was forbidden.

Mark stalked to the door and pressed his face to the window, angling his head to look to the right. If there was a window at the end of the hall, he might see sunlight streaming through it. Nothing. Just dim artificial light. Frustrated, he pounded on the door a half dozen times. The side of his hand stung, but the door was so solid, it didn’t even yield a satisfying thunk when he hit it.
Shit!

With no way to vent, his anger built, and he braced his hands against the door. Gritting his teeth, he tried to rein in the violence threatening to explode out of him. It would do no good. He leaned against the door, taking deep breaths until he regained control. Fight or flight responses denied, he sank to the floor in defeat.

The cold metal felt good on his shoulders and was probably the closest thing to an ice pack he would get in here. He tilted his head back and stared at the dull white ceiling. A black plastic bubble poked out of a corner. A camera. He almost laughed at the irony.

Hours passed and as the metal warmed, his bare shoulders stuck to it, but he didn’t bother moving. He had nothing to do, and even with his constant anxiety about what the future held, boredom set in. How long would they hold him like this?

His life, especially since he bought the old camera, had been a whirlwind. If he didn’t have a future picture to make right, he had photo shoots scheduled or clients to meet. Even on the rare days when he had nothing scheduled, he rode his bike, jogged, or just hiked around town, his camera a constant companion. He missed the weight of it around his neck. Reaching up, he felt the roughened skin on the side of his neck where the strap always chafed. How many times had he been teased because it looked like a hickey?

Mark stared at the opposite wall, smiling at the memory of Jessie Bishop raising an eyebrow at the sight of the permanent abrasion. He took a deep shaky breath. What he wouldn’t give to talk to her right now. Hell, to talk to anyone.

His throat constricted, the ache building until he was sure it would choke him. What if they kept him in here for months? He would go crazy.

Once, he had been on Lower Wacker Drive just trying to get some shots of something different. A homeless man had staggered into him, and Mark would never forget the chill he had felt when he had looked the man in the face. The man’s expression held no emotion. After stumbling away from Mark, he had pulled a dirty bakery bag out of his coat and dug out bits of donuts, shoving them in his mouth. It was like the man ate only to exist. Mark shuddered. Would he become like that poor fellow—just a shell of a person, more animal than human?

CHAPTER SIX

Jessie tapped her pencil eraser against the desktop as she surveyed the files stacked in the out-box and felt a surge of satisfaction. She was finally caught up. It had taken two months, but every case file that held something that might interest the FBI had been identified and the information forwarded to the Chicago bureau. It was out of her hands now.

She glanced out the window at the bleak gray sky. The few leaves, brown and curled, clung to a maple outside her building and twisted in the wind. Jessie wondered how a few always managed to cling all winter despite the abuse. How come the rest of the leaves couldn’t hang on? She shook her head at the idle thought. Yawning, she opened the bottom desk drawer and withdrew her purse, digging into it for her lip balm. A knock at her doorway made her look up.

Balm poised in front of her mouth, she said, “Yes, can I help you?” to a man standing in the threshold.

His off-the-rack suit couldn’t quite conceal a slight paunch and the button on his jacket strained. Short, dark hair, graying at the temples should have lent him a dignified air, but his sallow complexion detracted from it. A briefcase completed the picture of a middle management government employee.

“Jessica Bishop?”

Capping the balm and tossing it back in her bag, Jessie nodded. “Who wants to know?”

The man reached into his suit-coat breast pocket and pulled out identification. “Sean Daly, CIA. Is there a place we can talk?”

A sliver of dread coiled in her stomach as she dropped her purse back into the drawer. Jessie stood and motioned to the chair on the other side of her desk. If she had to speak to the CIA, it would be on her home turf. “Have a seat. We can talk right here.”

He stepped in and shut the door. Any objections he might have had to doing the questions here, didn’t show in his expression. Jessie sat and scooted her chair closer to the desk then folded her hands and waited. Hopefully, Dan wouldn’t walk in right now. He had gone down to talk to the desk sergeant about practice for the precinct basketball league. She had a feeling this was going to be about Mark, and Dan had already tried to grill her about Mark’s arrest a few months back. He’d have a field day with this. It wasn’t every day a police detective’s boyfriend was arrested as a terrorist.

Daly glanced around the cramped office and then lifted his briefcase onto his lap and withdrew a pad of paper, a tape recorder and a file folder. Jessie narrowed her eyes at the recorder. So, this was going to be official. He set the case on the floor and then arranged the other things on Jessie’s desk, raising his eyes in question when he began to move a photo of her niece. Jessie shrugged. She was determined not to make this any easier for him.

He clicked the button on the recorder and said, “This is Officer Sean Daly. For the purpose of accuracy and records, please state your name.”

Jessie spoke in a clear voice, “Jessica Bishop.”

“Do you know Mark Taylor?”

“Yes.”

Daly looked like he expected her to say more and he waited a few seconds. She was familiar with the tactic. People liked to fill silences and he thought she would jump in with more information without being asked. She quirked an eyebrow. Nice try.

“When did you first meet the subject?”

Jessie thought for a moment. There was a file in the cabinet with the information, but unless he asked, she wasn’t going to mention it. “I don’t have the exact date right now, but it was approximately two years ago.”

Once again, he waited and when she didn’t elaborate, a trace of a smile played around his lips. “And under what circumstances did you meet?”

“I was working a case and he called the precinct with some information pertinent to my case. I agreed to meet with him.”

He didn’t wait this time, but just jumped in with another question. “What was your first impression of the man?”

Jessie looked towards the window, recalling how nervous Taylor had appeared. The meeting took place at a fast food restaurant in the River North area. He had given her a general description of himself and what he was wearing so she spotted him before he saw her. He had been standing at one end of the front counter, a cup of coffee in front of him and a couple of open creamers. Her first impression was that he was taller than she expected. Her next impression had to do with how well his jeans fit.

Jessie glanced at Daly and hoped she wasn’t blushing. Taylor had been too modest when describing his looks. Brown hair and a bit over six feet tall made him sound average. But more than his looks, she had been struck by how expressive his face had been. She recalled thinking he would be terrible at poker. “My first impression was the guy couldn’t lie his way out of a parking ticket.”

Daly tilted his head and leaned forward. “What made you think that?”

Smiling, Jessie looked down at the desktop before raising her head to meet the agent’s eyes. “Have you met Mark Taylor? If you had, you wouldn’t have to ask. Every emotion he feels zips across his face.”

“No, I’ve never met the man.” His tone hinted that he never wanted to.

Jessie’s smile hardened. “Well, it’s your loss.” The words surprised her even as she spoke them, but she realized it was the truth. “He’s a bit different, I’ll grant you that, but I no more believe him capable of helping al-Qaeda than he is of flying to Mars by flapping his arms.”

“What do you mean about different?” Daly picked up the note pad and pen. He finally looked interested.

Jessie wanted to bite her tongue. Despite her best efforts, she had done just what she had vowed not to do. She had offered more than was necessary to answer the question. “I mean that he would call me with information. Like he had heard a mini-mart was going to be robbed. He thought one of the robbers had a gun he might use. When I would ask how he came by the information, he gave vague answers.”

His pen flew across the paper and without looking up, he asked, “And, was he right?”

“That’s the thing. He usually was.” It still bugged her that Mark never told her the truth about his sources. One look at his face and she knew he was lying, and he knew that she knew. He had always squirmed and looked embarrassed, but even so, he never came clean.

“Taylor tipped the police to criminal activities and was evasive on how he came by his information. Didn’t that make you suspicious?” Daly shook his head, as though talking to an idiot.

Jessie leaned forward, no longer concerned with keeping her mouth shut. This guy just pissed her off. “Do you take me for some wet-behind-the-ears rookie?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Of course it made me suspicious and I questioned him and looked into his background. There was absolutely nothing that raised red flags. No known criminal contacts, no drugs, no arrests, no priors period, unless you count some parking tickets in college. He was a successful photographer with dozens of professional references.” Leaning back, she crossed her arms. “But you should know that already.”