Authors: M.P. McDonald
How could Taylor have not eaten for a week and nobody had told him? Jim swore under his breath and wished he hadn’t traveled to Washington, but it wasn’t his choice. At least he’d been able to see his son, so it was worth it except in the two days he’d been back, nobody had mentioned Taylor’s food strike. If the guy died in custody, the press would have a field day. Already, there had been a few articles from the left calling for Taylor’s release, but so far, there hadn’t been much public outcry. Jim intended to keep it that way—even if it came down to force feeding.
Jim strode past his own office and went straight to Bill’s. He entered without bothering to knock.
Bill looked up from his computer. “How is he?” Before Jim could answer, Bill went back to typing.
“He’ll live...for now, even if he doesn’t want to.” Jim paced the confines of the office. “He thinks we’re going to kill him, so he figures he might as well control how he dies.”
The typing stopped and Bill swiveled his chair to face Jim. “He said that?”
Jim shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Basically. He’s given up.”
“I thought we were getting close to cracking him.”
Jim sank onto a chair. “Oh, he’s cracking all right. Just not like we had hoped.”
Bill grunted and leaned back into his chair. “Is he salvageable?”
He knew what Bill meant. Had Taylor been so broken that he was useless as a source of information? Taylor’s burst of anger at the end convinced Jim the man wasn’t quite there yet. “Did you ever think maybe this guy is innocent?”
“Nope.” Bill flipped through his desk drawer and pulled out a pack of gum, popping a stick in his mouth before holding the pack out to Jim, who waved him off. “The guy was fingered by a confirmed member of al Qaeda. He went to Afghanistan-we have proof of that. We also have the tapes of the calls he made just a few hours before the attacks took place. How else would he have known about the attacks?” Bill shook his head, his jaw working the gum like he had something personal against it.
Jim looked out the window, a few cherry trees bloomed, their color brilliant against the blue sky. Bill had a point. Taylor had to be guilty. He took a deep breath and brought both hands down on the arms of the chair, levering himself up. “Yeah. I guess so.” He began to leave, but turned back, adding. “I just hope we get some good information before he goes completely over the edge. He’s teetering.”
“So, we give him a little break. Question him a few times without any physical persuasion.” Bill grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. “Then, when he’s relaxed, bring him in again and twist the thumb screws.”
“I think you enjoy the interrogations just a bit too much. You scare me, you know that?” Jim was only half-kidding.
“Hey, these guys are getting what they deserve. Every time I see pictures of that mass of rubble in New York, I get pissed and you should too.” He shoved another stick of gum in, his usually pleasant expression darkened with anger.
“I know. I get angry too, believe me, I just want to make sure I’m getting angry at the right people. That’s all.”
“Don’t worry. You are.”
Jim nodded and left. He wished he was as confident of Taylor’s guilt. It would make his job a whole lot easier.
* * *
Jim spent the rest of the afternoon finishing some paperwork and then headed home. His stomach rumbled, and he recalled he had skipped lunch when he got the call that Taylor had been taken to the base hospital. A mental inventory of the contents of his cupboards and fridge revealed his meal choices would be limited to a can of soup and some leftover Chinese, week-old leftover Chinese at that.
There was a little diner just outside the base he could go to. He had eaten there a few times and the meatloaf was good. And maybe that pretty waitress would be working tonight. He cracked a smile and turned on the radio. It was the best idea he’d had all day.
Thirty minutes later, he dug into a thick slice of meatloaf smothered in a mushroom gravy. The waitress hadn’t been there, but as he ate a forkful of mashed potatoes, he decided he had still made a wise decision. Even the milk was good here, ice cold and plenty of it.
“Wow, you look like you’re starving,” his waitress joked when she stopped to inquire if everything was okay. “Don’t worry, nobody’s gonna snatch the plate away from ya, hon.”
The bite he had in his mouth lodged in his throat and he had to take another gulp of milk to wash it down. “Excuse me?”
The waitress grinned. “Nothing, I’m just teasin’ you. I like to see a man with a healthy appetite.” She patted him on the shoulder and moved on down to ask a family across the room how they were doing.
Jim’s appetite shriveled at her words, and he set his fork down, pushing away the plate. He had acted like he was starving, but he had no clue what it was really like to have missed more than one meal. He always knew if he skipped one, he could make up for it at the next meal. Taylor’s gaunt face popped into his mind and it contrasted sharply with the image he held of the man he had first questioned months ago. That guy had been tanned, healthy. He had been the picture of a man in the prime of his life. Now, he was pale and thin with his green eyes dulled by apathy and despair. A man who would rather starve.
Jim recalled Bill’s anger about what had happened on September eleventh. He set his jaw and picked his fork up. Bill was right. The bastard deserved it. He stabbed the last bite of meatloaf and crammed it in his mouth. Yep, he deserved it. Probably.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jessie shivered in her leather coat and wished her car would warm up. She fiddled with the heater settings in an attempt to coax more warmth out of the vehicle. The morning had started out in the high forties, but a stiff breeze from the north had made the early spring day feel like January. Stomach rumbling, she headed for the hot dog place and out of habit, glanced down Mark’s street as she stopped at the intersection on the corner.
What in the world? The front lawn of the building was full of furniture and other items. It looked like someone was getting evicted. She began driving past, feeling vaguely sorry for whoever it was, when it dawned on her Taylor could be in that situation soon. Slamming on the brake, she stopped, as a horrified thought hit her. What if those were Mark’s belongings? She ignored the glare of the driver who passed her on the right. If it was, all of his things would disappear within hours. She stomped on the gas and did a U-turn, pulling up in front of Mark’s building just as a group of teens began pawing through boxes.
Jessie jumped out of the car and flashed her badge. Judging by all the photography equipment tossed haphazardly into boxes, it had to belong to Mark. “Step away, please.” The youths looked at her and the badge. One protested, “Hey! We’re not breaking the law. We always get to take what we want from evictions.”
She strode up to him, stopping close enough to count his eyelashes. “I’m sure you do, but some of these items might be important in an ongoing government investigation. The landlord should have cleared it with the FBI first.” In all likelihood the landlord had been given permission, but the teens didn’t know that.
The kids gave a token protest and grumbled, but left. Jessie, hands on her hips, gazed around at all the boxes. She would take what she could. If nothing else, she could send it to Mark’s parents. Thirty minutes later, her car was packed with boxes. She had decided to try to get as much of the photography equipment as she could stuff into her car. When Mark came back, he would want that.
After unloading the car at her apartment that evening, she decided to swing by his place again to see if she could salvage anything more. What she saw made her jaw drop. A lamp lay broken, its shade missing, a box of papers that appeared to be the contents of a junk drawer, and some clothing, dirty and trampled, was all that remained. Sickened, she reached into the papers and pulled out a piece of junk mail. It was addressed to Mark Taylor. She let the mail flutter back into the box.
That evening, she sat at her kitchen table and examined the cameras. All of them hung open with the film compartments empty. She was sure any undeveloped film had been confiscated, but the equipment itself was of no use to the Feds.
She picked one up that had a cracked lens. She didn’t know much about cameras, but that couldn’t be good. Setting it aside, she reached in and pulled out an older camera. Its solid black body was textured, and the lens ring looked to be made of brass instead of plastic. Her grandfather had owned a camera that looked similar, but probably wasn’t nearly as old as this one. It was certainly an antique, and maybe an heirloom? Turning it in her hands, she marveled at its simplicity compared to all the gizmos on modern cameras. She wondered if it took regular thirty-five millimeter film. Unlike the others, this one held film. She thought it odd until she saw the counter was set at one, perhaps they hadn’t bothered because the film was still unused? Or maybe they had overlooked it since the camera was obviously old. Did it even work?
Jessie returned all the other equipment to the box and stashed it in her hall closet. She wanted to go over the antique camera a bit more, but it had been a long day and she was exhausted so she left it on the table. It could wait until tomorrow.
The next morning was a Saturday, and she dashed around town doing errands. Her car needed an oil change, her fridge was almost bare, and if she didn’t get her hair trimmed, she knew she would end up taking scissors to it herself, a situation that never ended well.
Later that afternoon, she collapsed on the sofa. The pantry was stocked, the car now good for another three thousand miles and, she ran a hand through her now neatly trimmed locks and smiled; her hair was safe from the kitchen shears. She started to doze, then remembered her niece’s dance recital and groaned. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go, she loved watching Maggie dance, but she couldn’t help wishing that it wasn’t this Saturday. Not that next Saturday would be any better. There never seemed to be enough time on the weekend to get everything done.
Glancing at her clock, she saw that if she was going to make it to the ballet recital, she’d have to hurry. Thirty minutes later, she had her hand on the doorknob when her phone rang.
“Hello?” She tucked the phone against her shoulder as she fished her keys out of her pocket.
“Hey, Jess.” It was her sister, Barb. In the background, Jessie heard a multitude of excited little girl voices. The recital was going to start in twenty minutes. She’d be cutting it close, and figured her sister was checking to see if she was coming or not.
“I’m on my way—save me a seat, okay?”
“Of course, but I’m glad I caught you. I forgot my camera. Can you bring yours?”
Jessie tried to remember where she had stashed hers. She hardly ever used it. Well, it had to be here somewhere. “Sure.” It took her ten minutes to find it, and when she did, she discovered she had no film. Damn. Already, she would be lucky to get there before the first class did their routine. Her gaze fell on the old camera still sitting on her table. It had film. She didn’t think Mark would mind, besides, he’d probably never know. She grabbed it and hurried out the door.
* * *
Sweat dripped into his eyes and Mark swiped it with his shoulder as he finished his last two push-ups. He sat on the floor, his back against the edge of his bed, and reached over to grab his shirt. He felt too sweaty to put it on right away, and held it loosely in his fist until he cooled down. Since returning from the hospital, he had renewed his exercise routine, but not with the same precision. Mostly, he did it out of boredom. There had been no more interrogations, which he was thankful for, but he hadn’t been out of his cell since returning from the hospital ward except for showers.
Once more he had lost the ability to track the passing of time. He tried counting meals, because for awhile, they came at regular intervals, but once he regained some of the weight, the meals became unpredictable again. His stomach rumbled even as he thought of food. He couldn’t be sure, but his trays had a tad more food on them since he had returned, but even so, he never felt full.
Time passed in mind-numbing boredom. Mark tried to envision photo shoots, but had difficulty focusing. The silence ate at him. Heavy and oppressive, it saturated the cell. Maybe his mind was trying to fill that silence, because he swore he heard people talking to him. Not all the time, but enough that it scared the hell out of him. Was he losing his mind? Were they screwing with him and playing voices over the speakers?
Except the voices belonged to people he knew. Once, he heard his mother calling him to dinner. Another time, Jessie’s voice came to him and said that she liked mustard on her hot dog.In fact, when he thought about it, the voices always spoke about something related to food, so he figured it was all in his head.
Mark stood and ran some water on his hand, then patted his face. When he had first started exercising again, he had, without thinking, splashed water on his face in his usual fashion. The simple act caused him to hyper-ventilate until he became so dizzy, he had so sit with his head between his knees. Now he made do with the least amount of water possible.
He had just finished swiping the remainder on his chest when the key turned in the lock. He held his breath until he saw it was the doctor. At last, another person to talk to, even if it was only for a few minutes. Mark ignored the guards who stood ready at the door.
“Hey, Doc.” Mark wanted to shake the man’s hand, but he’d learned that wasn’t acceptable, so he settled for nodding.
“Hello, Mark.” The man wasn’t chock full of warmth, but at least he wasn’t the one who attended Mark’s near drowning. “I see you’re keeping in shape. You could stand to gain a few pounds.”
Looking down at his washboard belly, Mark patted it and smiled. “I always wanted a six-pack. Guess I can thank the government for finally attaining one.”
“Yes, I guess you can.” There was no humor in the doctor’s voice. “Have a seat please.”
Mark’s smile faltered. He should have learned by now that the man would do no more than he had to do. No joking, no small talk. Nothing that would give Mark the impression that the doc regarded him as anything other than a job to do.