March Into Hell (20 page)

"Tourist." Adrian beamed and then added, "I'm heading to Cabo to do a little snorkeling. Can you give me directions?" He pulled out the map of Mexico he'd purchased, and took his time unfolding it until it was a large unwieldy square. He didn't miss the soldier's sigh of annoyance. It was just the response he was looking for. The soldier waved him on.

 Adrian flung the map onto the floor of the car. His only worry had been being identified leaving the country, but he'd felt confident his disguise and passport would let him sail through.  So far, everything had gone without a hitch. Years of saving every penny and living in fleabag buildings was about to pay off.

The colorful buildings didn't hide the poverty of the area. Graffiti stained buildings squatted close together, their bright colors giving a falsely festive look to the neighborhoods. Cruising the streets, he was glad he'd memorized the route to his meeting location. Every street looked the same. He raised an eyebrow at a particularly garish purple building next to the panaderia that was his goal. His contact had insisted that a bakery would cause less suspicion than meeting at a bar although Kern felt exposed in the bright sunlight. It was only mid-morning, so his cover of buying some pastries and eating them at the third table from the door wouldn't look out of the ordinary.

Javier Mendez sauntered into the bakery, glanced at Adrian, but showed no signs of recognition as he made his way to the counter  and ordered.

Adrian sipped his coffee. A few minutes later, Mendez joined him and pulled out the opposite chair. He took a bite of some large pastry and spoke around the food, "Buenos dias."

Adrian ignored the pleasantry. "Have the arrangements been made?"

Mendez set his pastry down and dusted the powdered sugar from his fingers as he said in lightly accented English,  "Si, the house will be ready in a month. I think you will be happy with it.  Much space and no close neighbors."

"Excellent. Is it on the ocean?" It would be much easier to come and go by boat and access had been one of Adrian's stipulations. As a foreigner, he wasn't allowed to buy oceanfront property, but there were ways around the law.

"It's set back in a small bay."

"Sounds perfect." Adrian smiled. "Now, about the other thing." As distasteful as Adrian found it, the only way to raise sizable amounts of cash quickly was in the drug trade, and his members had become adept at dealing to the rich North Shore kids who were afraid to go into the ghetto areas of Chicago.

"Shipments will begin as soon as payment is received."

"I have it right here." Adrian scanned the small bakery and made sure nobody was paying any attention as he passed an English to Spanish dictionary across the table. The center had been hollowed out and contained a small package of gemstones.

Mendez slipped the package out, and with a quizzical expression, peered into the small velvet bag. Afterward, he tugged the drawstrings tight and tossed the bag onto the table. "We agreed on cash, not a bunch of rocks."

Leaning forward, he struggled to keep his voice calm as he covered the bag with his hand. "We agreed on a price, not a method of payment. I couldn't very well cross the border with a suitcase full of cash. What would I have done if I'd been searched? Besides, these jewels are worth twice what you demanded."

Taking another bite of the pastry, Mendez shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. Do I look like a jeweler to you?"

"I can go elsewhere for what I want."

"You think so?" Mendez dabbed a spot of sugar from the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin. "I think that I'm the only one willing to deal with you now, after that repulsive stunt you pulled off in Chicago."

"What repulsive stunt?"

Mendez glanced sideways and his lip curled. "You crucified that man."

"It was part of a sacred ritual. We're not just some street gang like you're used to dealing with. We're a holy guild. Our foundation is based on sacred rituals and spiritual growth."

"Spiritual growth. Of course." Mendez rolled his eyes. "You've managed to accomplish what I thought was impossible. You have offended even the heads of the most violent cartels in Mexico. I had a difficult time setting up a supply line because nobody wanted to do business with you."

"You mean the same people that murder women and children? I didn't know they had standards." Adrian shook his head in disgust and continued, "Besides, Taylor didn't die, he's perfectly fine."

"They're saying he really is some kind of saint, and all the churches have been praying for him. You might want to re-think moving your headquarters down here."

"It'll blow over."

Mendez shrugged. "We are a Catholic country, senor. Surely you realize that your 'ritual' could  stir up some passion in my countrymen." With that comment, he stood and casually took the bag of gems, tucking them into his pocket. "These had better be twice the worth or I'll be in contact. Otherwise, this will be our last meeting in person."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“…yeah, Lily, pretty much everything including shoes. I think my sneakers should be okay to wear.” Mark pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to remember where he had removed his shoes last. Probably right inside the door, but with everything that went on that night the sneakers could be anywhere in the loft by now.

He supposed he could wear slippers home if he had to. "I’ll see ya later. Bye.”

Walking was easier today than the day before and Mark quickly showered, blocking out all thought and just letting the water pour over him. Afterwards, he even managed to shave and only nicked himself a couple of times. As he blotted the tiny cuts with tissue, he grimaced at the hideous purple and yellow bruises on his throat. Maybe he should have asked Lily to bring him a turtleneck. Other than his throat, he looked okay, which surprised him somewhat. He felt so different inside and was sure it would reflect in his outward appearance.

He wished the doctor would discharge him today. When breakfast had come, Mark had eaten as much of it as he could and even managed to choke down a few bites of the oatmeal. Physically, he felt pretty good. His knife wound bothered him the most along with the ever-present headache. He was almost used to it by now, only really noticing it when it would flare up in response to sudden movement.

Mark sat in the chair and turned the television off. The last thing he wanted to see was more coverage of what had happened to him. When he had woken up this morning, the local news had been filming from right outside the hospital, and Mark had been amazed at all the people gathered out there. He hadn’t had a chance to watch any coverage before, and it hadn’t occurred to him that he was the main topic in the news.

There was so much else on his mind that the events prior to the assault seemed distant. Apparently, what had happened to him had fired up the public’s interest. He took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with already.

There was a light knock on his door and Mark looked over to see Scott Palmer standing in the threshold. Warring emotions battled in his mind. Dread that he would have to talk—yet again—about what had happened. Already, he could feel his heart speed up. A glimmer of hope tried to balance the dread. Hope that this man would be able to help him sort out all his turbulent feelings so that they would finally quiet down and he would feel like himself again. He hated the way he felt right now. It was like riding a never-ending roller coaster.

“Mark?” Scott stepped into the room and approached him. “I’m Dr. Scott Palmer. We met last week, remember?” There was an awkward moment when Scott stuck out his hand and Mark reached to shake it, then remembered the bandages around his palm. He hesitated and Scott cleared his throat and let his own hand drop to his side. “Ah, sorry about that. I guess it’s not a good idea to shake hands just yet.”

Mark nodded and tried to smooth over the moment. “Of course I remember you. How is little Thomas?” It surprised Mark that Scott didn’t have a pad of paper or anything.

Scott smiled. “Thomas is great. Keeping us busy and on our toes as usual. Every night, we say a prayer thanking God for sending you to catch him.” He sat on the edge of the bed, facing Mark and held his hands loosely clasped in front of him.

Swallowing, Mark looked away. Did God have something to do with sending him to save Thomas? He had asked himself similar questions ever since he'd realized the camera delivered photos of things that hadn't yet happened. How did it work and why did it allow him to save some people but not others? Mark felt resentment well up. Why wasn’t he able to save himself? If God had given him the camera and inspired the dreams, why would he would put Mark through all that? Was it a punishment? Had he done something wrong?

“Are you okay, Mark?”

“Yeah…sorry about that. I kind of zoned out there,” Mark mumbled, feeling his face flame. “I was just thinking about some things. I’m glad I was there too. I got lucky and was just in the right place at the right time for once.” He scratched the back of his head and tried to smile. It felt stiff and phony but he attempted to keep it pasted on even as Scott gave him a skeptical look.

“Right time, right place?” Scott stood  and ambled to the window.

 Mark watched him glance down towards the front of the building. The psychiatrist was quiet for a moment, but his expression was alert and Mark could see him watching the media down below. Finally, he nodded towards the crowd and not taking his eyes from them said, “You know that you’ve been big news this last week.”

Mark took that as a statement and not a question so he kept silent and wondered where Scott was going with this.

“I’ve heard dozens of stories where you’ve been in the right place at the right time.” Scott finally turned from the window and leaned a hip on the ledge. He gave Mark a grin, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “You must have impeccable timing, Mark Taylor.”

 Mark had to laugh at that comment, he couldn't help it. “Yeah. I guess I do…sometimes.” He sobered at the last word.

“Sometimes?”

Mark picked at a bit of bandage adhesive on the back of his left hand and gave a half shrug. “I’m not always where I need to be at the time I need to be there. Or I am, but something changes and I…I fail at what I was there to do.” He knew what he said wouldn’t make much sense but couldn’t think how to explain it without telling about the camera.

“How did you feel when you failed?” Scott regarded him, his brown eyes reminding Mark of a serious, adult version of little Thomas’s.

A spark of anger ignited in him. He leaned forward and said, “How did I
feel
? How do you think I’d feel after allowing people to die? I felt like--” Biting back a curse, he sat back hard and avoided Scott’s gaze by focusing on the trees outside his window. Tiny green buds dotted the branches.

“Allowing? That’s kind of an odd choice of words.”

Mark heard a rustle of clothing then the tap of footsteps and he glanced at the psychiatrist. Scott was pulling a chair from the other side of the room towards the windows and Mark winced when one of the legs scraped the floor with a harsh sound. Scott didn’t set it directly in front of Mark; instead he angled it facing the windows.

“I hope you don’t mind if I sit?”

Motioning towards the chair, Mark nodded. “Be my guest.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Mark. Did you intend for anyone to die? Did you stand by and do nothing?”

Mark’s eyes narrowed. “Of course not. I couldn’t stand by and watch someone die and not try to help. But I should have tried harder. Maybe what happened to me was…” He scrubbed a hand down his face and pinched the bridge of his nose before letting his hand drop. “…was payback. For not doing what I was supposed to do.” He slumped in the chair, his elbow propped on the arm and his hand supporting his head. It was all becoming clear to him now. Not only had he failed at making some saves over the years, but he had let the secret of the camera out when he'd been interrogated.

“What were you were supposed to do? Why do you think it was up to you to do anything?”

Mark sighed. “Because it’s what I do.” He had turned his face so that his mouth was half- covered by his hand and the statement came out muffled. “I have to change things.”

“I don’t follow you, Mark.” Scott’s voice held a questioning note and when Mark glanced at him, he saw the doctor’s brow furrowed in confusion.

Dropping his hand, Mark straightened in the chair. What the hell...he might as well tell Scott about the camera. What more could it do to punish him? And he was just so tired of pretending. “You’re here officially, right?” Mark swallowed hard and continued, “I mean, as my psychiatrist…not just dropping in to say hello or anything...”

Scott held his gaze, steady and unwavering. “Yes, Mark, that’s correct.”

“Well, you probably already suspect that I’m crazy, so what I’m about to tell you will just confirm it.” Mark laughed, the sound sharp and bitter.

* * *

Scott winced at Mark’s harsh laughter. He could hear the underlying pain and saw the way he held himself, as if bracing for an attack. “If you want to tell me something, it will be held in confidence, if that’s what you’re worried about. As far as crazy, well, I can tell you right now that after years of experience dealing with mentally unstable people, you don’t seem to fit the bill.”

Mark’s eyes flickered with hope, but it was replaced almost immediately with a guarded look. Whatever he was about to tell Scott was causing him to put up a protective front.

“I…I have a special camera, and when I use it, I get photos of future events. Always tragedies, never any good stuff." Mark's mouth twisted into a wry grin. "It would be great if I got photos of winning lottery tickets, but so far, it's always bad stuff. Anyway, most days…well, except for while I’ve been here in the hospital, I take the photos, develop them, and that night, I dream the details.”