Mark Taylor: Genesis (Prequel in the Mark Taylor Series) (6 page)

He couldn’t wait to get home and take a long, hot shower. He felt like he had dust embedded an inch deep in his pores and it would take months to feel clean again. Water was a commodity he had always taken for granted, but in his travels through Afghanistan, where it had to be drawn out of a well, he appreciated the effort it took to obtain it a lot more. The hotel had water, but the water pressure was a mere trickle and he filled up the basin and had to wash using that. Cupping the tepid water, he splashed his face, and then soaped up the washcloth, scrubbing his cheeks and his beard. There hadn’t been many opportunities to look in a mirror the last few weeks and his appearance startled him. His skin was so brown and his beard longer than he had ever worn before. It was like looking at a stranger. Mentally, he added shaving to his ‘To do’ list when he returned. Feeling refreshed, if not exactly clean, he returned to his room to find Mo sitting on the only chair. If Mark had been dusty, Mo was positively filthy. And was that…blood on his neck?

“Mo? Are you okay? What the hell happened to you?”

“Nothing. My cousins and I camped out in the mountains with some other men from the village.”

On one hand, Mark was a little disappointed that he hadn’t been invited along. He and his dad used to camp and hunt when he was a kid. It might have been fun, but the prospect of camping with Faisal and Sayeed drained the appeal out of the idea. However, if Mo had asked him to go, he would have and done his best to avoid the cousins. Something of what he was feeling must have shown in his expression because Mo waved a hand dismissively.

“You wouldn’t have liked it. It was more like a religious retreat than a camping trip. I would have told you about it before we left Chicago, but I wasn’t sure if I would be able to go or not. They’re very selective about who attends.”

Mark shrugged and draped the damp towel over the doorknob, hoping it would dry before morning so he could use it again. “No problem. I spent my day exploring Kabul and found the coolest old camera at a bazaar. I’ve packed it already, but give me a second and I’ll show it to you.”

Mo shook his head. “Sorry, maybe later. My room’s next door and I need to hit the bed hard.”

His enthusiasm faltered, but Mark nodded. “Sure. I’ll see you in the morning.”

CHAPTER THREE

The loft was cool from the air conditioner, but even with it running full blast, it couldn’t erase all of the humidity from the Chicago air. With trepidation, Mark unwrapped the camera, freeing it from the confines of the t-shirt. What if he had only imagined the energy? Or what it had just been some kind of strange static electricity from the hot, dry air in Afghanistan?  He had been back home for five days already, but he had been so busy catching up on photography shoots, paying bills, and processing the photos he had taken in Afghanistan, that he hadn’t had a moment to play with the camera.

A frisson of excitement hit him as his fingers brushed the metal and energy raced up his arms. “Yes!” He set out the soft brushes he had taken from his studio. He wasn’t sure he wanted to trust the camera to anyone else to clean. What if they did something and it lost the energy? He couldn’t explain why it was so important to him, just that it felt right. Without it, it would be nothing but a pretty showpiece. Nice, but not very exciting.

He put on some music and spent the rest of the evening cleaning every nook and cranny of the camera, using a can of compressed air to get the sand and dust out of cracks he couldn’t reach with his brushes.

Satisfied at last, he stretched and glanced at the clock. Tomorrow was Saturday and other than a quick headshot for a kid in the morning, he didn’t have anything else scheduled. He would try out the camera the next afternoon. It looked like standard 35mm film would work. The source of the energy became an even bigger puzzle to him because there was no obvious source. Everything on the device was mechanical, not electrical.

Saturday morning couldn’t pass fast enough. The kid had been cute and mostly cooperative so Mark had recommended a couple of agents to the mom. Something about the boy reminded him of the little boy in Afghanistan. Maybe it was just his dark hair and eyes, but Mark took it as a good sign for trying out the camera. Maybe it was a sign that the camera would work.

Finally.  Mark strolled along the lakefront, enjoying the great weather and taking shots of whatever caught his eye. Tufts of grass sprouting from sand dunes, the lake, and he even sprawled on the ground and took a photo straight up through the leaves of a tree. He thought it might show some good contrast between the dark leaves and the dapple of sunlight. The lake was choppy and kids stood in front of the waves, squealing and laughing as the waves carried them in to shore. He sat on the beach and drew his arm over his brow. The sun beat down and the water looked inviting. Too bad he hadn’t thought to wear his swimming trunks.

 A few women in bikinis were lying on the sand and he couldn’t help contrasting their mode of dress with what he had seen in Afghanistan.  He had never thought twice about a woman in a swimsuit except to enjoy the view. When that thought hit him, he felt added heat creep up his neck. Were women there forced to wear the suffocating burqas to protect them from guys like him who had indecent thoughts about women in bikinis?  He shook off the idea. It wasn’t like he acted on the thoughts. The more he contemplated the burqas and their use, the more insulted he became. He had self-control; it wasn’t as if he was going to throw the nearest woman in a bikini down in the sand and have his way with her, but the dress restrictions seemed to imply that men couldn’t control themselves.

At that moment, the woman turned her head and opened her eyes. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as her eyes met his. He blinked and turned away, embarrassed to be caught staring, and the heat turned to a burning flame of embarrassment. If she only knew what he had been thinking…Mark looked again, feeling the urge to explain, but she had closed her eyes again. Obviously his attention hadn’t disturbed her. He stood and brushed sand off his pants and headed for home. 

Mark had a darkroom in his studio, but only used it occasionally when he wanted a special effect. It was more cost-effective to send his film into a company to get developed and get proof sheets. It allowed him to book more shoots if he didn’t have to spend a lot of time developing film, but sometimes he missed doing his own, so he took the opportunity to develop the film from his first use of the antique camera in his own studio. When he had finished and they were dry enough to handle, he sorted through them.

The tuft of grass and the tree photos turned out pretty cool, but the one of the lake was flat. Mark frowned and set it aside. He should have focused on something on the lake such as a sailboat.

Disappointment at the ordinary photos drained some of his excitement. For some reason, he had expected more, but the reality was, it was an old camera and the device was only as good as its operator. He stared at the picture of the water and shook his head. Boring. What had he been thinking? He tossed it aside.  The second to last photo stopped him cold.

A little girl was sprawled on the sand and what appeared to be a lifeguard was pinching her nose as he leaned over her. His other hand tilted her chin and it was apparent he had either just given her a breath or was about to give one. A woman had a hand on the child’s chest, and her face was contorted with anguish. He stared, trying to comprehend where the photo had come from. He had put his own film in. He was mystified. Had he somehow clicked the shutter by accident and taken the picture? It didn’t make sense. Maybe there was some way the film could have been packaged with this photo already on it. He didn’t know how, but it was the only explanation he could come up with. The little girl’s eyes were open just a fraction, and he shuddered at the blank stare.

The last photo was one he had taken of a kite in the sky. It was okay, but it added to his confusion about the image of the little girl. He would expect something like that to be on end of the film, otherwise he would have had a double exposure with his own photo superimposed over the one of the little girl, but he saw no evidence of that. If it had been at the end, he could see where he had thought the film was finished, maybe the counter was off or something.

Mark blew out a deep breath and flipped through the photos again. It didn’t make any more sense the second time through, so he tried to put it out of his mind and when his friend George Ortega called to see if he wanted to go out for a few beers and a game of pool, he jumped at the offer.

He sipped his beer and leaned against the bar as George lined up a shot, but all he could see was the little girl lying in the sand.

“Hello?”

Blinking, Mark flinched as George waved a hand in front of Mark’s face. Annoyed, Mark said, “What?”

“Dude. It’s your turn.”

The annoyance slipped away. “Sorry, man. I was just thinking about something.”

“No problem.” George held up his bottle of beer. “You ready for another?”

Tilting his bottle, Mark drained it and shook his head. “No, I think I’m going to finish this game and then head out.”

George glanced at his watch and shook his head in disbelief.  “It’s not even ten yet. Man, you’re getting old!” A smile took the edge off the dig. He set his bottle down. “Then we might as well finish up before I get a refill.”

Obliging, Mark took his shot and made it, but missed the next one. George ran the table after that.

Mark returned the cue to the wall holder and shook George’s hand. “You finally got me. I’ll bring my ‘A’ game next week. You better watch out.”

With a laugh, George shook his head. “I might quit while I’m ahead. Whatever it was distracting you tonight worked out in my favor.”

He was about to deny the distraction, but shrugged instead. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I was a little preoccupied.”

“Hey, how did it go in Afghanistan? I heard you and Mo went there?”

Mark dug in his pocket for his car keys, spinning them around his finger as he replied, “It went…okay. It didn’t go quite as I planned though.”

Leaning against the bar, George signaled for another beer. “Really? What happened?”

Mark was tempted to tell George about Mo’s lack of contribution towards taking the photos for the book, but he thought better of it. It wasn’t like Mark had been overworked, and it was possible Mo had always intended for Mark to do most of the photography while he supplied the narrative. Besides, it was Mo’s book and he had paid for Mark’s trip so he wasn’t out anything except a few weeks’ time. “Nothing I can put my finger on. I probably misunderstood what my role was; besides I got a cool looking antique camera from a bazaar. So in the end, it was all good. Anyway, I’ll see ya later. ”

George clapped him on the back. “Later, amigo.”

At home, Mark eyed the stack of photos he had left on the coffee table and couldn’t resist sorting through them until he found the one of the little girl again. He studied it for several minutes, noticing the features of the lifeguard for the first time. He looked vaguely familiar. Had he been working the beach where Mark had taken the photos of the lake? It was hard to tell because he had only seen the young man at a distance but the dark hair was right. If it was the same guy, he certainly hadn’t been performing CPR when Mark had spotted him. 

A throbbing headache took up residence behind his eyes and he let the picture slide from his fingers to rub his temples. There was no explanation for the picture. At least nothing that made sense. He headed to bed, detouring to the sink for a glass of water and a couple of aspirin.

The little girl played in the surf, her squeals of delight nearly drowned out by the pounding waves. Her mother stood in the water nearby, watching with an indulgent smile. A young boy called to her and she turned away and spoke to him, saying something about a cooler. When she returned her attention to her daughter, the little girl was gone. The mother’s scream pierced the air. Mark stood on the edge of the shore wanting to dive in to search, but his feet felt mired in the sand. He struggled to lift them to no avail. A dark haired young man in red swimming trunks rushed past and dove into the water. The mother kept pointing to the last place she had seen her daughter and screaming, “Gabby!”