Mark Taylor: Genesis (Prequel in the Mark Taylor Series) (21 page)

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 some 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.

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?”