March Into Hell (9 page)

"Mark Taylor?" It was the first words she'd spoken, and her voice wavered. "I don't understand what you want me to do."

"Claire told me she found Taylor's business card on your hospital table with today's date and a time written on it."

Judy nodded. "Yes, that's true. I was going to go over to his studio today and talk to his business partner about working there, but now that you want me back, I'll cancel it."

This was better than Adrian had hoped. They had a legitimate way of getting inside. "No, keep the appointment. I've done some research and found out that Taylor lives above the studio. I want you to keep your eyes open and find a way for us to get inside. If you get a chance to unlock a window, that would be great. I want to know the layout, alarms, anything so that we can get inside."

"Why? And what do you want to do?"

Adrian bit back the anger that surged when she questioned him. He pasted on a smile. "He's been chosen. You are the messenger that delivered him to me once. Now, you will deliver him again. It's your destiny."

Her back straightened as she nodded. "I'll do whatever it takes."

His smile became genuine. "I'm sure you will, but remember, it has to be done carefully. Look for opportunities, but be subtle. If you arouse suspicion, it would ruin everything." He allowed a tinge of menace to color his voice, and by the way a muscle jumped in her throat, he knew she recognized it. "I'm sure that you will use the utmost care."

She nodded. "Absolutely."

* * *

"Mark! Mark! I'd like to talk with you a moment."

"Mr. Taylor! Could you comment on the speculation about how you get your information?"

"Are you the second coming?"

Mark rolled his eyes and shouldered his way through the throng of reporters, keeping his head down all the while. The camera had delivered more than one incident today. It didn't do that often, but when it did, it made for a crazy night of dreams. He yawned and rubbed the back of his neck.

 The first save was only a mile or so away. A grandmother was going to accidentally give her little granddaughter too much cold medicine because she had forgotten her reading glasses and mis-read the label. He hoped that the magnifying lens he had would do the trick. The other saves were minor and involved little more than making sure that he was in the right place at the right time. He hoped he'd have enough time to make it back between saves to meet with Judy and Lily and ease the introduction.

"Hey, Taylor!"

He looked up, recognizing the voice and blinked as a series of flashes went off in his face. Squinting through the spots in his vision, his mood brightened when he saw George Ortega move through the horde, his camera held high in one hand, his other out-stretched.

Mark reached out and shook hands with the man. "How are you doing, George?" It had been ages since Mark had seen the other man, but at one time, they had been pretty good friends.

"I'm good, I'm good. But how about you, man? I see you're making headlines again." His friend wore a hat at a jaunty angle, his dark eyes dancing with humor.

Mark glanced around at the other reporters eagerly listening for any scrap of information. He shook his head and said, "I have no idea why. Is that what you're doing out here?"

George shrugged. "Sorry, amigo. I got a job to do." With a sly smile, he added, "You know, being a friend and all, you would be doing me a big favor if you gave me an exclusive."

"Exclusive what? There is no story." Mark turned and began walking away, deciding that taking the 'L' would be his best bet. If he walked where he needed to go, he'd probably end up looking like the Pied Piper with the media trooping along behind him. Lily had taken the van this morning because she needed  the portable lights which were too big to take in her own vehicle.

George fell into step beside him. "For someone without a story to tell, you sure do manage to get involved in a lot of stuff."

Before Mark could reply, one of the reporters called out sarcastically, "Are you giving your story to him but not us?"

George turned around, walking backwards. "We're friends, dude. Understand? Friends from way back, now shut up and give my friend a little breathing room!" Spinning back around and hardly missing a step, George continued, "So, what about it, Mark?"

Mark turned to go up to the 'L' platform. "Look, George, I'd help you out if I could, but I don't have a story. If there ever is one, you'll be the first person I tell." Hearing a train rumbling down the track, he waved. "See ya! Gotta go!"

 It took a mad dash up the steps and being fortunate enough to find a fare card in his pocket that still had a couple of rides left to make it on the train just in time.

* * *

Jim Sheridan finished reading the article and shook his head. If Mark Taylor kept racking up mentions in the news, Mark would be no good as an asset, but he felt a stab of guilt. It was his job as a CIA officer to protect his asset, and this article meant he'd done a piss poor job of it. It didn't matter that he'd had no way of knowing the article would appear.  He chuckled, unable to escape the irony that if he had a magic camera like Taylor, he might have known of this in advance.  Even if he had, what could he have done? Ordered the reporter to drop the story? If only he could. Jim stared at the picture of Mark on the page. It was undated, but it had to have been taken before Jim had ever met the man. He was smiling at something off camera, and the wariness which always lurked in Taylor's eyes ever since Jim had known him was absent.

Mark Taylor's unique ability was something which made him special. It wasn't just the camera and the dreams. Jim never knew exactly how to treat the guy, and that made him uneasy. His training had covered how to deal with people who were never quite trustworthy. Anyone who was close enough to the enemy to provide information had to be looked at as somewhat suspect. Someone in that position might drop five great tips, but then clam up, or the tips could turn out to be bait, drawing a CIA agent in, gaining their trust while biding their time to strike when the stakes were high. 

 It was a risk that Jim had taken before with other assets. Some paid off, others didn't, but in his long stint in the CIA, more often than not, he managed to contain or avoid any damage to himself or more importantly, anyone else. In all that time, not one of his assets had ever been outed. Until now.

Jim leaned back in his desk chair and put his feet up on the corner of his desk, arms folded. He knew he was getting ahead of himself. There was no mention of Taylor linking him to the CIA. If anything, the enemy combatant mention would throw a smoke screen up, but this article could be the stick that pokes the hornet's nest.

He scanned the article again. There were no direct quotes by Mark, so Jim was fairly confident that the reporter hadn't actually interviewed him, but had just drawn conclusions based on some in depth research. What had Jim curious was why the reporter was curious about Taylor.

So far, Jim had kept his nose out of what Mark did with his future photos. If it didn't involve national security, he remained uninvolved, preferring not to know what the guy did. This article popped the bubble of ignorance that Jim had willingly hidden inside.
Damn it.
He pulled his legs down, his feet hitting the floor with a thump that would tick off the FBI agent on the floor below him. Jim smiled. It was the little things in life that gave him pleasure.

He reached for the phone and dialed Mark's cell number. The cell phone was special issue, as safe as current technology could make it, and Mark was to carry it at all times. It was the only stipulation that Jim had insisted upon. Taylor hadn't been thrilled with having a cellular leash, but start-up money for the photo studio had been on the line, so he'd conceded.

After the tenth ring, Jim hung up. So much for the leash. He looked up Jessica Bishop's number. While he stayed out of Mark's business, that didn't mean he didn't know that Taylor and Bishop had parted ways. However, he had a feeling that if anyone would know where Mark was, it was Jessica.

"Detective Bishop."

"Hello, Jessica. This is Jim Sheridan."

She groaned. "Oh no. You saw the paper?"

He broke into a grin at her weary tone. "I sure did. As a matter of fact, I was wondering if you had any idea where the blessed one is right now?"

"Cut the crap, Sheridan. I'm neck deep in it already, and don't need more heaped on. And no. I saw him earlier today, but he didn't give me his itinerary."

While Jim had counted on them remaining in touch, this news came as a surprise. "You saw him
today
?"

"Come on, it's not every day that an ex-boyfriend is accused of being the Second Coming. I had to see firsthand if I'd missed something in all the time I've known him."

"And did you?" Jim asked, intending the question to be sarcastic, but it came out sounding serious.

"What?"

"Miss something."

"Look, Jim. You know Mark. He's about as honest as they come, and, I admit, he's a good guy, but he's not perfect."

"Nobody is."

"I would think the Messiah would be pretty damn close to perfect, wouldn't you?"

Jim looked at the photo of Mark. No, the guy wasn't perfect, that was for certain. Someone who was accused of being the next Jesus wouldn't have the temper that Taylor had shown on more than one occasion. Most of all, he would have had the power to prevent 9/11.

"I'm just giving you a hard time. However, it is important that I reach him. With his name all over the news, he could be in jeopardy." He traced a pencil line around the photo, darkening the edges.

"You mean his status as your asset?"

Jim would never acknowledge that kind of question, but he couldn't stop her from guessing. "I mean, there are a lot of nuts out there. I'm concerned about his well-being and if there's anything I can do to help keep him safe, well, I guess I owe it to him."

"Unfortunately, you're a little late on that."

The pencil traced through the paper. "What do you mean?" Had something happened and he hadn't been notified? He had contacts in the Chicago P.D. and other places. Someone should have informed him.

"He had a run in with some cult. He's okay, just a few cuts and a concussion, but it wasn't a good situation."

"What the hell happened?"

Jim rubbed his forehead as she related the details. Just what he needed, a loose-cannon asset who thought he could save the world all by himself.

* * *

The minor saves took longer than he'd anticipated because someone would recognize him on the street and try to question him. Mark tried to be polite, but he was sure that many of the people were left in no doubt that there was nothing saint-like about him after the encounters.

He entered the studio through the back door, shutting it in the face of another reporter. The smell of burgers made his stomach growl, and he hurried into the office.

"Hey Mark. I hope you haven't eaten because I ordered you a burger from next door. With your fan club camped outside the studio, I thought I'd save you the hassle of wading through them to get dinner." Lily lifted a bag from her desk, the scent wafting to him hinted of a side of fries.

Mark gleefully rubbed his hands together and took the bag. "Thanks. I'm starving! I didn't have time for lunch." He reached in and popped a fry in his mouth. It was hot and greasy with just the right amount of salt. Pure heaven. 

Lily nodded and pulled out her top drawer, rummaging around for a few seconds before shutting it. She gave a delayed, "You're welcome," while lifting a stack of photos. She checked the spot beneath them, and did the same with the appointment book, her brows knit together. "Do you see the spare keys lying around here somewhere?"

Mark set his burger down, and rolled his chair back to check under the desks, then stood and turned in a circle, scanning the floor and the top of his own desk. "Nope. When did you have them last?"

"I can't remember." Lily put her hands on her hips in exasperation. "Where could they have gone? I was going to lock them in my desk drawer. I don't put it past one of those reporters out there getting it in their head to sneak in and bug the office or something when nobody is around."

"Bug the office?" He couldn't help laughing. "Isn't that just a
little
paranoid?" He sat and resumed eating his burger.

She crossed her arms. "That's easy for you to say. You've been gone all day and haven't had to deal with keeping the pack at bay."

"Sorry." He swallowed. "I'm sure the keys will turn up."

She sighed. "Yeah, I hope so."

He dipped a fry in ketchup and ate it, thinking back and vaguely recalled using them a few weeks ago when he'd left his own keys in his kitchen and used the spare keys to lock up rather than run up to get his own. It's possible that he left them up in his loft. "I think maybe they're upstairs."

"Oh, okay. Well, as long as you have them."

"So, how did the interview with Judy go?"

Lily's brow furrowed. "Strange."

Mark paused with the burger half-way to his mouth. "Strange? How?"

"I don't know. I just...sensed that she really wasn't all that interested in coming to work here." Lily turned in her chair and began re-organizing her desk. Everything had a place, and she knew exactly where it all went.

Mark was always amazed at how organized she was. It was at total odds to the edgy look she preferred. "Could she have changed her mind and just didn't know how to tell you?"

She shrugged. "Possibly." In less than a minute, her desk was in perfect order. "So, are you done for the day?"

Full, he pushed his wrappers away. "Pretty much. I thought I'd tackle some photo editing this evening. I'm almost caught up, then I have to develop my other film."

Lily shook her head. "No."

"Excuse me?"

"Mark, when was the last time you had a night off? A night to just relax and not think about anything?"

He scratched the back of his neck. "I don't know." Probably before Jessie had left, but he didn't share the thought with Lily.