NO GOOD DEED (10 page)

After a quick exam, the doctor made a couple of notes on a small pad of paper. “You’re looking good. Your shoulders are doing better?”

“Yeah.” Mark rotated them to prove it. “I’ve been given some time off.”

“Right. Well, until next time I come by, just keep doing what you’ve been doing. The exercise routine is a good idea, but don’t overdo it. That might be what’s keeping your weight down.” The doctor walked over to the door and without another word, left the cell.

Mark slumped onto his bed and lay down. Maybe the chaplain would come soon. Once in awhile he visited. He was nicer. While he didn’t stay long, he did ask Mark if he had any requests. The last time, Mark had asked for some books. The chaplain said he would pass on the request. It had been awhile now.

There was nothing to fill his time. He could sleep, but that brought pain. Not the kind inflicted by an interrogation. No, this was worse. It was pain born of loss and frustration. Despite the risk, he still craved the dreams sleep brought. He’d dream of food. Dreams so vivid, he’d wake to find his mouth watering. He’d lie still and try to fall back into the dreams, and sometimes, he succeeded.

It wasn’t just the food, it was the good times and happy memories surrounding the meals. Pancakes dripping with maple syrup at Boy Scout breakfasts. Fried chicken on Sunday afternoon after church. Lazy summer afternoons eating watermelon on the front porch while his mom hung laundry to dry. His dad waving away smoke as he manned the grill while Uncle Larry and Mark played a game of catch on the Fourth of July. The smell of the hot dogs, brats and burgers had tantalized them. Mark swallowed. Afterwards, they’d feast on apple pie topped with homemade ice cream. His mom would smile at him as he tucked into his dessert. It was his favorite and she’d made it especially for him.

Then the dreams changed. The smile on his mother’s face would turn to confusion, and she’d look at him blankly, without recognition. It was the lies she’d been told by the authorities; he’d never been allowed to call and explain. The dream would go on, with his dad holding out a plate piled high with Thanksgiving favorites, only he’d withdraw the offering as Mark reached for it. Then Jessie would appear and just as he bent to kiss her, she’d push him away with the look of fear he’d seen back in the holding cell.

He’d awaken with a gnawing in his gut. A hollow ache. She hadn’t believed him. No one believed him. Had his shame been made public? Did anyone know where he was? Had they even tried to contact him? Or had they forgotten him and gone on with their lives? Did they hate him that much? Even his mother?

The scrape of his meal tray sliding across the floor pulled him from his thoughts. What would it be this time? He was sure it wouldn’t be apple pie. He squashed his disappointment when he saw grits. Pancakes would have been nice. Out of habit, he stepped to the sink and washed his hands, not that anyone would care if he ate without doing so, but his mother had ingrained the action. Cupping some water, he patted some onto his cheeks and neck. It made his skin crawl to splash the water on his face, but he forced himself to deal with it on shower days. It was either that, or never shower again. Right at the moment, he needed one. He sniffed down by his underarm. Badly. When he rubbed his hand across his jaw, the stubble felt prickly, almost beard length. A shave would be nice too.

After washing, he sat cross-legged on the floor, tray balanced on his lap. He grimaced. Grits. Well, it was food and it would fill his belly. Out of necessity, he ate quickly, lest they demand the tray back before he was done. Sometimes, that meant shoveling the food in without using any utensils. Today, he did his best to eat in the manner his mother had taught him. He even imagined eating breakfast with his parents. His dad asked him how the photography business was going, but Mark knew what he really meant was, had he come to his senses yet and taken a real job.

His mother would brag about some photo Mark had done, pointing out how talented he was. Then she would ask him if he was seeing anyone special. It was no secret that she longed for grandchildren. His folks drove him nuts with their nagging. A lump rose in his throat. He stared at the empty bowl and swiped a finger along the rim, snagging a few bits he’d missed. He popped the finger into his mouth and tried to swallow the lump with the little bit of food.

What he wouldn’t give to be in his mom’s sunny kitchen right this minute. She could nag him about girlfriends and grandchildren to her heart’s content, and he would just smile. He wouldn’t even mind his dad yammering on about respectable jobs. Hell, he might even go get one, if he ever got the chance again.

The order to send the tray out came, along with the demand that he put his hands and feet through the slots for shackles. His hands shook as put them through the opening. Were they going to interrogate him again?

His fears died down to their usual level when he only went down the hall to the shower room. They didn’t allow much time, but that was okay. He didn’t like spending much time in the spray, but he did love the clean feeling afterwards. He shaved and dressed in clean prison garb. Done, he waited to be taken back to his cell, but instead, they took him towards the yard. Mark began trembling again, but this time in anticipation. It had been so long since the last time he had been outside.

Mark stepped into brilliant sunshine and closed his eyes, feeling the heat on his face. A soft breeze ruffled his still wet hair and sent a pleasant shiver through him. He looked around in wonder. The last time he had been out, it was overcast and blustery. He had still enjoyed it, but today was perfect.

The guards released his leg shackles and Mark was very conscious of their guns held casually at the ready, but there was nowhere for him to run. Ignoring them the best that he could, he ambled into the center of the small yard. The scent of flowers carried to him on the breeze and he smiled. It was one thing they couldn’t control. He laid on the concrete, not caring how hard it was. It warmed his back, and he closed his eyes.

In the distance, he heard leaves rustling and birds singing. An ant tickled a path across the back of his hand. He could have fallen asleep right then and he’d dream that he was on North Avenue beach. His limbs grew heavy and he almost dozed, but shook his head to rouse himself. He didn’t want to waste a precious second outdoors in slumber. Sitting up, he draped his arms over his bent knees. Soft pink petals from some tree fluttered in the air like fragrant snowflakes. The sky beyond the walls supplied the ultimate blue backdrop.

The sun shone almost directly overhead and his hair dried. He wanted to soak in the sunshine and save it up for later. Who knew when he would see it again? This week? Next? Never?

Too soon, his time was up and he blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the hall. The prison stank of sweat, floor wax and stale cooking odors. He resented those smells taking up residence in his nose and replacing the scent of cherry blossoms and springtime.

It was one of the few times when he had an idea of night and day. It had been near midday when he had been outside, and he did his best to gauge the time when he returned to his cell. When he deemed it night, he laid down on the thin mattress and pulled the blanket over his head. Between that and draping his arm over his eyes, he achieved some darkness. He missed the blackness of night.

Mark thought of nighttime in Chicago. It was never truly dark. Some nights he would go to the roof of his building and look south towards the Loop. He never tired of the gorgeous skyline. It killed him to think that people thought he wanted to destroy something so beautiful. He curled on his side, facing the wall. Sleep came more easily than usual. The little bit of fresh air had done its magic, and with his head turned in to his bicep to block the light, he caught the faint scent of spring on his skin.

“We’ve tried to give you a break. Did you notice the extra food? The time outside? Those perks don’t come for free. Now you have to pay for them. You have to give up some information.”

“I can’t, sir.” Why did they keep asking him the same questions? Frustration welled and Mark clenched his teeth as he tried to slow his breathing down. He leaned against the wall, his arms spread wide, only his fingertips holding him away from it. His legs angled behind him as though he was doing a push-up against the wall. Only he had to hold the position. For hours. The white cinder-block an inch from his face blurred into a vision of faint gray craters and white ridges. A black scuff mark marred the wall. His arms burned and when they gave him permission to use his forehead to help hold his weight, the relief only lasted a few minutes.

“I bet your friend Mo didn’t hold out this long before pointing the finger at you. Why are you protecting him and the others?” Jim tapped him on the shoulder with a pen or pencil. Mark wasn’t sure, but even the light tap hurt his quivering muscles.

The clank of the door slot awakened Mark and he bolted up in bed. What the hell? Instead of the interrogation room, he was still in his cell. His body was slick with sweat and he swiped it off his face. It had been so real. It was like one of his camera induced dreams. How could that be? Shaking, he got up and began pacing the cell.

CHAPTER NINE

“Jeez, lady. I almost called the police when I developed these photos.” The owner of the photo developing shop grimaced and shook his head as he rang up her total. “Including the new film, that will be ten dollars and sixty-six cents.”

Jessie cocked her head. “Excuse me?” She handed him her money. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He held up his hands and looked to the side briefly. “Hey, whatever you’re into is your business, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t bring your film here anymore. At least, not if it has pictures like those on it.”

Confused and embarrassed but not sure why, Jessie took the envelope of pictures and left. She sat in her car in the parking lot and pulled out the prints. Her niece grinned at her, not the least bit bashful about the two missing teeth. More pictures of the recital, and one of her sister and Maggie. She held one up to get a better look. Maggie had leaned towards her at the last minute and instead of a head and shoulders shot, it was an extreme close up of Maggie’s nose and eyes. It looked kind of cool, even if she did say so herself. Grinning, she flipped through the rest.

The last few should have been group photos of Maggie with her ballet class, but instead, one was a side view of a man facing a concrete block wall. His body leaned forward, arms spread wide with only his fingertips and forehead holding the weight of his body off the wall. Where in the world had that photo come from? Shaking her head, she set it aside. There must have been a mistake at the processing lab. The guy at the camera place should have been paying better attention to his work instead of looking askance at her. She focused on the very last picture, hoping to get at least one group shot.

She gasped at the image on the paper. It wasn’t a group shot. A man sat on a bare concrete floor with his hands shackled to his ankles, his face screwed into a mask of pain. On the edges of the photo were booted feet with camouflage pants tucked into the top. She noted a chain that ran from the man’s shackled ankles, to a ring anchored in the floor. The poor guy. His face, eyes open but glazed with exhaustion, angled towards the camera. A shiver of recognition shot through her. Her hand shook as she took a closer look. With a shocked cry, she flung the picture on to the dashboard.

It was Mark.

* * *

All morning, Mark waited. He knew it was inevitable. They would come for him today. He tried to eat breakfast, but it came up as his stomach churned. The day dragged on, and the muscles at the back of his neck tightened, sending waves of pain shooting through his skull. Alternating pacing with sitting against the wall massaging his neck, he tried to put the dream out of his mind. Maybe it was just a regular dream. A very vivid regular dream .Lunch came and went untouched. When the command came to present his hands for the shackles, it was almost a relief. The waiting was over.

Mark stood motionless as the team assembled in the interrogation room. Head down, he didn’t bother trying to listen for idle chatter this time. What good would it do?

Bill approached. Mark could tell by the sound of his footsteps. They were slower, less measured than Jim’s. “Did you enjoy your nice little break?”

Mark clenched his fists, and then took a slow deep breath forcing his fingers to relax. Anger would do no good here. What could he reply to that? Yes? That he’d had a grand old time? Better to remain silent. He didn’t think he would be able to control his sarcasm if he spoke.

“Say again? I didn’t hear you. Look at me when I speak to you,” Bill snapped.

Even though he was the ‘good’ one, Mark doubted that Bill had a speck of sympathy for him. “I had a great time...sir.” Mark tried not to glare and averted his eyes, focusing on the wall across the room. He made sure he looked above the group, including Jim, seated at the table watching him.

Bill leaned into Mark’s field of vision, his eyes narrowed. “You know what? Just to get this show on the road, what do you say we start out with a little stretching exercise?” He motioned to the guards. “Get him in the rowing position.” He turned back to Mark. “You ever rowed a boat?”

Mark hesitated, looking past Bill to Jim at the table. Did he look annoyed with the suggestion? It was hard to tell. “Uh, yes sir. A few times.”

“Well then this should bring back some memories.”

The position they put him in did bring to mind rowing a boat, but only if he remained in the coiled position without ever pushing with his legs and straightening his body. The shackles bit into his wrists and his back muscles jerked. They left him like that while they went to get lunch. The guards remained, but neither spoke to him. What was the purpose of this? Mark tried to come up with something he could tell them. Had something happened in Afghanistan that they would want to know about? He straightened his knees as much as he could to ease the pulling on his shoulders. That worked for about a minute, then his hamstrings burned. Mark bit his lip to keep from moaning. His thighs ached as though red hot pokers were being jammed into them.