Mark Taylor: Genesis (Prequel in the Mark Taylor Series) (18 page)

 As he started to process the information, logic took hold. Something like this didn’t just occur accidentally. Mark admitted he was no expert, but didn’t jets have all kinds of safeguards to prevent pilot errors of that magnitude? His stomach coiled into a tight ball when the implications of what four different planes meant. This was no accident. One plane was an accident, two an unthinkable tragedy, but four? That was somebody’s plan.

Setting the phone back on its charger, he drummed his fingers on the countertop as his gaze shot from one image to another, unable to concentrate on just one. How could he stop this? The coil twisted into a knot of pain. What could
he
do?  He slammed his fist on the counter, not caring when the blow caused the bag of food to fall over, spilling the contents onto the floor.

With his elbows resting in front of the photos and fingers rubbing circles on his temples, he took a deep breath.
Okay, just settle down and think it through
. It wasn’t like this was going to happen tonight. These were all daytime shots, so he had a little time. He raked a hand through his hair as he glanced at the clock. Had it only been an hour since his dinner had been delivered? There was no way he could eat now, but his biggest worry was how in the hell could he sleep? Sleep was imperative so he could dream, but he was so tense and keyed up, it would be elusive tonight.

He circled the breakfast bar and opened the fridge. Four beers. Too bad it wasn’t a case, or better yet, a bottle of Scotch, but it would have to do. He opened one and gulped it down while he picked up the cartons of food from the floor. Most of the fried rice had spilled out so he swept it up, but all the while, his mind raced with ideas of how to stop the horror depicted in the photos. He took a long draught of the beer, wiping his arm across his mouth afterward. His goal was to consume enough to relax him so that he could sleep, but a small part of his mind wished he had enough alcohol on hand to erase the photos from his memory. He finished off the beer and chucked the bottle into the trash.

Mark pulled out a second beer and flipped the cap off as he plopped onto the barstool. Why had the camera chosen to show him these photos? Did it really think he could do something about them? He tilted the bottle, already a little buzzed from the effects of drinking the first beer so quickly on a relatively empty stomach. The second eggroll was still warm so he ate it between sips just to put something in his stomach besides alcohol. The goal was to relax, not become wasted.

His common sense struggled to convince him that the camera was just a mechanical device. It didn’t think. It didn’t
know
that he was helpless to change some things. Maybe this act of violence wasn’t really meant for him to change. After all, how could he do it alone? The cold sweat of fear drenched him. If he failed, how many thousands would die? Both towers were billowing smoke in the photos. The Pentagon looked like a side of it had exploded and the other photo, with the plane heading into the field…he shuddered at the terror those passengers would know just before impact. Tomorrow was a Tuesday, so likely all three buildings would be full of employees at work. His hand shook and the bottle rattled as he set it down.

The responsibility for saving all those lives stacked on his shoulders like a thousand bricks. Taking a deep breath, he blew it out and leaning his elbows on the breakfast counter, he massaged the back of his neck. He hadn’t asked for this. Since when did purchasing an old camera involve a lifelong commitment to saving the world one photo at a time?  There had been no promise—no contract—presented to him forcing him to prevent events depicted in the photos. Sure, he had changed a few things, and had made a difference in quite a few lives, but it was usually just one life at a time.

It wasn’t that he didn’t
want
to change the outcome of the photos, God only knew, he begged for nothing else, but the magnitude of the tragedy and the multiple focal points made it seem like an impossible task. He had no clue where to start.

He longed to share the burden of knowledge with someone.
Jessie.
As a detective, she would have more experience with something like this, or at least know whom to contact. His fingers closed once more over the phone, but he hesitated. Did he have time to explain the camera tonight and if he did, would she believe him? As a cop, she would want proof and all he had were the photos. If someone had shown him pictures like these two years ago, he would have assumed they were doctored. Jessie would be even more skeptical.

Mark released the phone when he remembered that even if he could convince her of the photos’ authenticity, she was out with her sister’s family tonight. His time would be better spent looking up numbers of authorities rather than wasted by trying to contact her, and then convince her to come over. It wasn’t something he could explain on the phone. Tomorrow he would have more information, and then he could attempt the difficult task of making her believe the photos were authentic and would become reality unless they could stop whoever caused the tragedy.

It was after midnight when he fell into a restless sleep. On his bedside was a pad of paper alongside a sheet of paper with numbers to the FBI, police, ATF, American and United Airlines, some of the major airports across the country and even the White House. He had always been too busy to spend much time on the Internet, but he did some searches and found the non-Chicago numbers listed.  He knew the White House was a last resort and he wouldn’t ever be connected to anyone important, but he figured it couldn’t hurt to have it on hand. The pad was to write down the details as soon when he awoke.

Mark tossed and turned, trying his best to relax, but it wasn’t happening. With a sigh, he flipped onto his back and folded his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. How many people were going to sleep for the last time tonight unless he found a way to stop the photos from coming true? He closed his eyes and tried to change the direction of his thoughts. Sleep had to come, it just had to. But instead of sleep, his vision was plagued with images of the planes crashing into the Towers and the Pentagon.

Eventually, his eyes became heavy and he drifted off, only to jerk awake every time as if his mind was fending off the dreaded dreams.  After the third time, he sat on the edge of the bed, scrubbing his hands down his face and yawning. Through eyes gritty with fatigue, he noted the time, 2:11 a.m. He groaned. Half the night was gone and he hadn’t dreamed at all yet. What if the dreams didn’t come? Mark had a sneaking suspicion that he wouldn’t be absolved of guilt if he didn’t have a dream depicting the events. The photos showed the airlines at least. If he went dreamless the rest of the night, he would have those clues to pass along. The security office at the World Trade Center could be notified, and the same with the Pentagon. At least some people might be saved if he could convince someone to believe him. He padded into the kitchen and drank a glass of water. He prayed that just getting up and moving around would could alter the pattern of suddenly pulling out of the clutches of sleep just as it was getting him in its grasp.

The photos were still on the kitchen counter, and reluctantly, he spread them out for one more look as he sipped the water. Afterward, he went back to bed, and this time when sleep caught him, he didn’t escape.

“Come on…
come on
!” Mark glanced at his watch and paced between the breakfast bar and the sofa. It was seven-thirty already—less than twenty minutes until the first plane would hit. The first planes to crash were probably already in the air or on the runway ready to take off and here he was on hold still on both his landline and his cellphone.

He had been awake for hours already, calling all the numbers on his list, and with the knowledge from the dream, adding a few more, including the New York Fire Department. So far, nobody had taken him seriously. They had asked for his name and number, but then said they were transferring him to someone else. Usually by the third transfer, the call was disconnected. If it wasn’t disconnected, he was left on hold so long he finally had to hang up so he could move onto the next number.

 The cell was currently on hold for Logan Airport. It was his second attempt with them. The first call had been routed to Lost and Found. He guessed they heard him ask for security and just assumed he was complaining about lost luggage. His intention was to stop the flight from taking off, but as the minutes ticked by, he felt the opportunity to keep the plane safely on the ground slipping away.

On the landline, he waited for the FBI to come back to the line. At least they seemed to listen to his story before telling him to hold for some agent. What the hell was taking everyone so long?

The music stopped playing on the Logan call.
Finally
.

“Yes, I explained to the last guy that you have to stop American Airlines Flight 11 from taking off if it hasn’t already. No, this isn’t a joke. Listen, there are hijackers on it and they’re going to…no, I’m not on the plane, but—wait, please listen…don’t put me on hold again. Hello?”

Mark pulled the cellphone away from his ear and looked at the screen, uncertain if they had disconnected him or put him on hold. The screen was still lit and showing the number so he was on hold. There was no music this time.

The FBI line still crackled with various clicks. Did that mean his call was being transferred around to different people?

At 7:35, Logan came back on the line. Someone from the FAA. Mark swallowed hard and answered his question to the best of his ability, “I know you have a situation. I…I dreamed about it. I dreamed about the plane being hijacked. You have to warn the people in the World Tra— Damn it!
Don’t
transfer me again!”
Shit!
 

The FAA guy had abruptly given the phone to someone else who asked Mark basic questions like his name and address. When they got it all, he was shoved back into on hold hell.

 He hadn’t even had a chance to warn anyone. Someone finally came on the line for the FBI.

“Please, you have to put me through to someone in charge. There’s not much time left.
Oh, God. Please
.”

“I’m sorry sir; I need to ask a few questions first.”

“Goddamn it, there’s no
time
for questions...time...
oh, shit
...what time is it?” Mark zeroed in on the clock on the VCR.
7:44.
No! No! No!
The phone slipped from his fingers as the implication of all those deaths sunk in. It was too late. He had failed. There was no way anyone could stop this now. A voice came from the phone on the floor, and numb with despair, Mark bent to retrieve the phone and put it to his ear. His throat worked, but no words emerged. He tried again, managing to choke out, “Never mind. It’s too late.”

He clicked the cellphone off. There was no point in trying to warn them again. It crossed his mind to try to stop the other planes from crashing, but it was as though his mind had turned to sludge and the thought took forever to transfer into action. Blinking to clear the fog, he ran a finger down the list of numbers. He had called them all at least once.

Defeat and failure crashed over him and he sank onto the sofa, staring at the muted TV. Any minute now, the rest of the world would know what he had known for a little over twelve hours now.
Good Morning America
was on but the hosts were still blissfully unaware. Charlie Gibson and Diane Sawyer chatted on the sofa before going to a break.

Even if his call to the FBI had gone differently, he doubted that there would have been time. Maybe fighter jets could be scrambled if some were in the area, but even if they were able to intercept the planes, what could they do? Shoot them out of the sky? On Mark’s say so? A bitter chuckle slipped out. He shook his head at the absurdity. He didn’t even know if there were any bases near New York and it hadn’t occurred to him to do an internet search for one. Chalk it up as another strike in the failure column.