NO GOOD DEED (16 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Mark’s eyes rolled back. Jim tore at the plastic, his fingers slipping against the wet film. “Goddamn it. Someone help me before he dies.” He hoped he wasn’t too late. Damn traffic.

The guards stooped, one working on the wrap, while the other released the shackles. When they rolled Taylor onto his side, water poured from his nose. Jim pounded on the unconscious man’s back and was rewarded with a weak cough, then a stronger one as more water drained.

Relief swept through Jim as he knelt on one knee. Taylor gagged and choked, then his eyes fluttered open.
Thank God
. Jim stood, fury rising in him, replacing the relief. Turning towards Bill, he ground out, “What the
hell
were you doing?”

Bill glared back. “I was interrogating the subject. What does it look like?”

Ignoring him for the moment, Jim addressed the guards and pointed to Taylor still lying dazed and gasping on the floor. “Take him to the infirmary and have him checked out.”

Jim faced the interested expressions of the others in the room and strode to the table. How the hell could these guys just sit here and watch? None had bothered to help make sure Taylor didn’t die. It took every shred of his self-control to speak in a calm voice, “If you would all excuse us. I need to confer with Bill. I’ll let each of you know what is going on as soon as possible.”

Dr. Weiss, the medical expert on the team, looked like he was going to argue, but Jim gave him a hard look. “You have an objection, Doctor?” He, of all people, had the duty to make sure no lasting harm would be done. And yet, here he sat, looking befuddled.

The other man stood and shook his head as he gathered up his papers. “No, but I wanted to let you know about the unusual circumstances before the interrogation began.”

Jim leaned on the table with both hands. “What kind of circumstances?”

“The subject insisted that he knew what was going to happen, and he asked to write it down and put it in a sealed envelope.”

Dr. Weiss pointed to the corner where Mark was now standing on trembling legs. The guards shackled him, and Jim had to bite his tongue to keep from telling them not to do so. Protocol had to be followed. Mark had recovered enough to send a hate-filled glare in Jim’s direction.

“The envelope hasn’t been touched since Bill taped it there. I’m curious and I’m sure the team is as well.” The other two members hesitated at the doorway.

At a tearing sound, Jim looked over his shoulder to see Bill yank an envelope off the wall. Jim straightened and held his hand out. “I’ll take that.”

Bill’s mouth set in thin line, but he gave Jim the envelope. As the senior member, Jim had the authority. He knew it rankled Bill at times, but this was the first time he had seen outright anger. He decided to spare Bill any further embarrassment and nodded to Dr. Weiss. “Thank you for telling me about this. I’ll let you know if it’s pertinent to the investigation.” He waved a dismissal to the others.

Jim would have liked to open it with Taylor present, but that would mean the guards would be privy to the contents as well only he had a feeling that this information should be kept secret. He nodded towards Mark. “I hope you’ll feel better soon.”

It was the closest he could come to an apology. The anger in Mark’s eyes wavered, and then his shoulders slumped. The guards led him away.

“Well, aren’t you going to open it?” Bill sprawled into a chair, pointing with his chin at the envelope in Jim’s hands. “The guy was a real pistol tonight. Told me to just get it over with.”

“Get what over with?”

“What we were going to do. Claimed he dreamed it last night.” Bill clasped his hands behind his head and grinned.

The hairs on the back of Jim’s neck rose and he paused as he tore the seal. “He said that?”

“Yeah, but he wanted to write it down instead of telling us. I decided to go along with it. Thought maybe he would write something useful while he was at it.”

“Huh. Well, let’s see.” Jim unfolded the paper and smoothed it on top of the table. The handwriting scrawled across the page, but it was still clear enough to read without any problem. Taylor had outlined in stark detail exactly what was going to happen.

Jim read it and slid it over to Bill. “I wasn’t here for most of this, so, I don’t know if he’s right or not. What do you think?”

Bill lowered his hands with a sigh and slouched forward to read the paper. Seconds later, his back straightened and his eyebrows rose. He flipped the paper, his eyes racing across the lines of print. When he finished, he looked up at Jim. “Well, holy hell. What do you know? He has it verbatim, right down to a...remark I made.”

Jim pulled out a chair and flopped onto it. “So, what do we do about it?”

“What do you mean?” Bill sounded puzzled. “It’s interesting, but doesn’t change anything.”

Jim narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “How can you say that? Either what he’s been telling us all along is true, or someone on the team set this up.”

Bill shrugged. “Who the hell would set this up?” He stood and pointed a finger at Jim. “Are you accusing me of arranging this...this scam?” Leaning one arm on the table, he swept the other in a vague motion towards Taylor’s cell block. “Maybe the guy got lucky. He’s had enough sessions in here that he could have guessed. But if this is his attempt to get released, it’s not going to work.”

Jim felt his jaw tighten and exerted every measure of his self-control to keep his anger in check. His instinct was to jump up and stand toe-to-toe with the guy. Instead, he tilted the chair back on two legs, put his feet on the table, and crossed his arms, giving Bill a hard stare until the other man sat down.

As if the outburst hadn’t occurred, he said in a calm voice, “Of course I don’t think you set it up, but there were others in the room. We’ll need to keep alert for troublemakers.” He let his feet drop to the floor and stood. “However, this fiasco not withstanding, I do have doubts about Taylor’s guilt. Unless you uncovered anything with this session today?”

Bill shook his head. “Nope, just more of the same denials.”

“Either Taylor is the world’s toughest guy or he’s not connected to any terrorists.” The implication that Taylor was innocent, and had been caught up in a post 9/11 witch hunt wasn’t something that he wanted to think about. There were too many people involved. Something like that wouldn’t happen. The designation of enemy combatant needed approval from the highest authorities. It wasn’t Jim’s job to question it.

“It doesn’t matter anyway, we can’t just let him go. Who knows, maybe the guy is tough. Maybe he’s just stupid or a martyr.” Bill stood and waved his hand. “Besides, there’s still the confession by his friend and his trip to Afghanistan to consider.”

“That’s all bullshit, and you know it. His ‘friend’ named half of his address book. From what I read, that guy was a bit player. A wanna be terrorist. His confessions have yielded a big fat zero as far as actionable intelligence. In fact, the last memo stated that he’s already been released back to his home country.”

Bill shot a Jim a look of surprise. “Oh. I missed that one, I guess.” He sank back onto his chair and drummed his fingers on the table.

Jim nodded. “I’ll find it and forward it to you.”

“But Taylor was still in Afghanistan...”

“So? Lots of journalists and photographers were in that country in the last several years. Should we go round them all up?” Why was he defending the guy? Jim shook off the thought. He wasn’t defending, he was simply playing the devil’s advocate.

Bill sighed, and rubbed circles on his temples. “What other evidence do we have? The calls? Is that it?”

“Exactly. The evidence we do have, the calls warning of the attacks.” Jim began ticking off the list on his fingers. “His association with someone who has contacts within al-Qaeda, and his trip to Afghanistan, hasn’t been built upon since his detainment began. We’re still at square one.”

“You think he’s innocent.” It was a statement.

Jim flipped the envelope against one hand, tapping it as he paced in front of the table. Innocent? It was hard to contemplate. Difficult to accept. “I don’t know, but I’m not comfortable with what we have so far. If we don’t get more soon, we’re going to have to make some serious decisions.”

Shaking his head, Bill said, “Even if the guy is innocent, how can we let him go? You know he’d go running off and telling the press.”

“That’s a possibility, but not a reason to keep him prisoner. It shouldn’t even be a factor in our decision. We’re not some communist country who locks up dissidents. If he wants to speak, it’s his right.”

“Well...shit.” Bill propped his elbows on the table, his hands on either side of his head. After a moment, he dropped his hands. “What about a non-disclosure contract?”

“You mean an agreement to keep quiet?” The idea put a sour taste in Jim’s mouth.

“You have a better idea?” Bill spread his hands. “Look, Jim, I’m not so sure the guy is innocent, however, like you said, we haven’t been able to get any hard evidence. I concede that. None of the teams have, so we’re not alone.”

Jim halted his pacing, tucked the envelope in his inside breast pocket, tugged on the lapels. “I think we dig in deeper. Try some new techniques. If those don’t work, then, I don’t think we have any choice but to recommend release.”

* * *

Mark paced his cell. It had been weeks since the last interrogation and he hadn’t heard anything about what he had written. This whole time, from the beginning of this nightmare, despite the accusations and the interrogations, hope had burned in him. He’d tried to quash it—had tried to go numb, but it flickered anyway. Then the dreams came again, and as terrifying as they’d been, they gave him a reason to hope, a way to prove his innocence.

Now, even after his predictions came true, nothing had changed. He’d seen the envelope in Jim’s hand before they took him to the infirmary, he was sure he remembered that. Had they thrown it away? Had he gone through hell for nothing?

Hope. He hated hope. It was insane to cling to it. He was insane. This whole goddamn
place
was insane.

He balled his fists, his body tensing as rage raced through every cell of his being.
The bastards!
The confines of the cell, with no way to vent the anger, served as a pressure cooker. He yanked the thin pad off his bed, slamming it against the wall. Why didn’t they let him go?

The dark bubble over the camera up in the corner caught his eye. There they were. Watching him. They were
always
watching him. The lights shone all the damn time. Everything he did was caught on tape. He couldn’t even take a piss without an audience. Shame combined with the anger, and Mark’s gaze dropped to the half-eaten bowl of grits on his tray. Grabbing it, he whipped handfuls of the congealed substance at the bubble. Let them just try to see through that mess.

When the grits were gone, he gave a hard flick of his wrist, sending the bowl bouncing against the wall. His chest heaved while he watched it spin and wobble in a circle before coming to rest in the corner. The sticky grits plopped from the bubble onto the floor. Damn it. Even the grits wouldn’t cooperate. Mark stared at the splotches of food on the floor and burst out laughing. What an idiot he was for thinking anything would make a difference. A stupid, naive idiot. They had probably snickered over the note in the envelope.

He staggered back, bumping into the wall, and slid down to a sitting position. Hysterical, mirthless laughter bubbled up in his throat, choking him before it dissolved into a sob. Pain squeezed his chest. Why had he allowed himself to feel anything? Hope hurt.

“Shit!”
He crossed his arms over his knees and buried his face, wrapping his hands over the back of his head.

* * *

The mattress was gone, taken as punishment. Even his blanket was confiscated. The temperature in the cell dropped precipitously. It had to be deliberate.

To keep warm, he did jumping jacks, push-ups, and any other exercise that he could do in a nine by six cell. That worked, until he tired. His muscles quivered as he paced to and fro. Less than four steps from end to end, and he’d about face and repeat the march. For hours, he continued, his pace slowing until he was stumbling and lurching across the cell. They would turn the heat on soon. They wouldn’t let him freeze to death.

He hadn’t seen anyone in days. Maybe they had gone off and left him. But someone delivered the meals. They still came at regular intervals. Not the usual fare. Instead, he received cold meals ready-to-eat. He ate them, if only to keep from getting a feeding tube, but the cold sapped his energy, and he got up only to use the toilet or push the meals out. After awhile, he didn’t need to get up as often. His fingers were clumsy and stiff, and the meals too hard to open. He gave up, and sent them back out untouched. Nobody seemed to care.

Mark curled on the metal shelf and shivered. His teeth chattered until he was sure a few had chipped. He clenched jaw to stop the chattering. How many meals had come since the cold hit? Six? Eight? He lost count. He slept in short spurts, getting up to move around, but finally, he sank onto the floor, with a sigh. He had to rest.

Arms pulled into his shirt, he hunched over his drawn up knees. At least one more meal arrived, but he was so stiff, he couldn’t get up to retrieve it. He moved onto his side, the cement no colder than the metal shelf. Why bother trying to move? His eyes grew heavy. How cold did someone have to get before they died? Would they let him get to that point?

After awhile, the cold didn’t bother him so much. He must be getting used to it. Growing up in Wisconsin, and then living in Chicago, he was accustomed to cold weather.

Once, he’d gone hunting with his dad when he was a kid, and had broken through some ice, falling into a shallow pond. He recalled pushing against the ice, breaking it with his hands as he waded out, but remembered his father’s warnings to keep moving until they got back to the campsite. There, he’d been stripped of his wet clothes, and wrapped in warm blankets. His dad wouldn’t let him sleep for awhile. The next day, he’d asked why, and was told if he’d fallen asleep when he was that cold, he might not have woken up.