NO GOOD DEED (21 page)

“Norma? What the hell is going on?” The basement door opened and his dad, his protective goggles pushed up on top of his head, froze as he saw Mark. “Jesus Christ!”

His mom broke away, but kept an arm around Mark’s waist. “Mark’s home, Gene. He came home!”

Not seeming to comprehend, his dad looked from Mark to his wife for a few seconds before he finally moved, his steps hesitant as he approached.

Mark swallowed hard. “How have you been, Dad?”

His father’s steps quickened. “Mark.” It was all he said, but it was enough. In a heartbeat, his dad’s arms were around him, his hand going up to the back of Mark’s neck and pulling him close. “We’ve missed you, son.” His voice was thick.

Wood shavings clung to his dad’s flannel shirt and he smelled of pine and varnish. Mark could only nod and his throat swelled. He sighed when his mom reached up and feathered his hair.

His dad broke off the hug and took a step back, eyeing him from head to toe. “Are you okay? Did they treat you well?”

Mark saw the worry on his mom’s face, and said the only thing he could, “Yes, sir. I’m fine.” He tried to smile, but then had to duck his head and bite his lip to keep his emotions in check. “I don’t really want to talk about it now, if that’s okay.”

She ran her hand up his arm, stroking it gently, and tilted her head. “Oh, hon, we don’t have to. Are you hungry? Dinner is almost ready.”

“I’m starved.” Mark did smile then, and rubbed his hands together. “I can’t wait to taste your cooking again.”

His dad clapped him on the back. “It’s good to have you home.” Nodding, his lips tight, he turned and abruptly went back to the basement.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Steam rose from his plate. Mark closed his eyes and inhaled. Damn. It smelled great. The carrots and celery added color to the stew. Big pieces of beef swam in thick gravy, bumping up against chunks of potatoes. Two corn muffins perched on the edge of the plate where they dripped melted butter to mix with the gravy.

Mark took a bite and knew he was home. His mother poured him a tall glass of milk and he gulped it. “Ah. This is great, Mom.” He swiped his hand across his mouth and dug into the mound of food on his plate.

His mother beamed and hardly touched her meal. Every time Mark looked up, he found her watching him like he might disappear any second.

“Your son is right. This is a wonderful meal, Norma.” Using his muffin to sop up some gravy, his dad made quick work of eating. “I bet you didn’t get food like this in prison.”

Cornbread lodged in Mark’s throat, and he thought he might gag. Grabbing his milk, he took a swallow. “No, sir. Nothing like this.” He still had a half a plate of food, but his stomach churned and his appetite had deserted him. He poked at the carrots with his fork.

Prison. Did that make him an ex-con? He had never been convicted of anything. Hell, he had never even been charged with anything. He felt his mother looking at him and kept his head down.

“I didn’t think so. You look kind of skinny, but no worries, your ma will put some meat back on your bones.” His dad chuckled and laid his fork and knife across his plate.

“
Gene
.” She gave him a stern look.

“What? It’s true.” He patted his stomach. “Got any dessert?”

“There’s apple pie.”

Mark bit the end of a piece of carrot, but couldn’t manage any more. He sat back and gave his mom an apologetic smile. “Dinner was delicious, but I guess my eyes are bigger than my stomach.” After the talk of his weight loss, he wanted more than anything to polish off his dinner, but he just couldn’t.

She frowned at his plate and then held his gaze for a long moment. Nodding, she stood and held her hand out for his dish. “I’m sure it’s probably just all the excitement getting to you.”

“It’s okay. I can get it, Mom. You sit and eat.” Mark rose and crossed to the sink. “Apple pie sounds great, but I think I’m going to have to take a rain check.”

“Well, maybe later on tonight you’ll be hungry again.”

“Maybe.” Mark rinsed his dish and stuck it in the dishwasher, then grabbed a cup and poured coffee from the fresh pot. “Anyone want some?”

“You can pour me a cup,” his dad said, then he cleared his throat, and continued, “If you don’t mind watching me eat my pie, I’d like for you to sit and talk with us.”

He’d known the questions would come, but he’d hoped to delay the inevitable as long as possible. “Yeah. Sure.” Grabbing two more cups, he poured coffee for his parents. His hand shook and he spilled a few drops on the counter.

In the window above the sink, he saw the table behind him. His mom shook her head at his dad, but his father only nodded. Mark was surprised at the expression of sadness that stole across his father’s face. His mother sighed and then stood and went to the other counter and began cutting the pie.

After all he had been through in the last year, this should have been easy, but as he carried the cups to the table, his heart thumped so loudly he could hear it inside his ears. He told himself it was just his parents, it wasn’t like he was going to be interrogated.

He blew on his coffee as his father stirred some cream into his own. Done stirring, his father set the spoon on the saucer with a clink. “Tell us what happened. We don’t know much.”

Mark rolled the mug between his palms, watching the coffee swirl inside. “Honestly, I don’t know much either. One minute, I was elated because I helped save a baby, the next, the police were slapping cuffs on me. The FBI showed up, whisked me to their office and asked me about some phone calls I made on September 11th. I had dreamed about the attack, and thought I could stop it.” Mark couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.

His mother shot a confused glance at Mark’s father before turning back to Mark.”A baby? We didn’t hear anything about a baby. And what phone calls?”

Of course the baby part hadn’t made the reports. It might have ruined the image they tried to paint of a heartless terrorist.

His dad pinned Mark with a hard look. “There has to be more to it than that.”

Mark rubbed circles on his temples. “ It’s complicated. You guys remember my trip to Afghanistan about four years ago?”

His dad shrugged and his mother nodded.

“Well, the guy I went with, Mo—Mohommad Aziz— was also arrested. It seems he had some connections to al-Qaeda. He told officials that I was involved too.” It still hurt to think of his friend’s betrayal and he took a sip of coffee to hide the pain. The only explanation was desperation on Mo’s part. If he received the kind of questioning Mark had, well, he could hardly blame the guy.

“
Were
you involved?”

The accusatory tone hit Mark physically with a sharp stab to the chest and his cup rattled when he set it down. “What do you
think
, Dad? Tell me. I want to know.” He couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice.

“I don’t know what to think.” His father drummed his fingers on the table, his mouth stiff. He glanced off to the side, as if composing his thoughts. He spit out the words as if he was tasting something nasty. “I’ll tell you what I
know
instead. I
know
that my son—my only child—who I raised to respect people and to love this country, was taken away and accused of one of the most horrific crimes imaginable against his own countrymen.”

Mark shook his head, cradling it his hands. “No. I didn’t—”

His dad froze him with a look as he cut him off. “My son is gone with no word, and I have to get my information from the news media—when they call to get interviews with the parents who raised the ‘monster’.”

“Gene, he’s not a monster. He’d never do something like that.”

“I’m just repeating what was written.” He glared at Mark’s mother before pinning it on Mark. “Do you know what this did to your mother? I’ll tell you. She was kicked out of half the clubs she belonged to, and the other half hardly speak to her. Everywhere we go, people whisper and point. We’re pariahs in our own community.”

Mark turned to her but she evaded his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

She shrugged, her eyes bright with tears. “It wasn’t a big deal. Not compared to not knowing where you were or how you were doing.”

His dad didn’t let up. “I lost about half of my patients, other doctors shun me, and it’s become so bad, you’re mother and I were thinking of leaving town.” He stabbed a finger in Mark’s direction. “So don’t go thinking this has just affected you.” He circled his finger to encompass the three of them. “It’s affected all of us, and your mother and I deserve to know the truth. We deserve to know why you’ve shamed us.”

“I never meant to shame anyone.” His voice broke and he cleared his throat, taking a moment to gather his composure. “I...I went to Afghanistan, but I only took photos for Mo’s book. I never did the things they said I did. I never went to any training camps. I never said a bad word about the U.S.”

He rubbed his eyes with his first two fingers and thumb. “While I was there, I bought an old camera. An antique.” He cursed that day. “I never told you guys because it sounds crazy, but when I’d use that camera, I’d get photos of things that were going to happen.”

His dad scoffed and crossed his arms. “I thought you could do better than that.”

His mother remained silent, which was almost worse.

“Let me finish, dammit!” Mark glared at his father. “It’s true, and not only that, but after seeing the photographs, I dreamed about them. Dreams like you never imagined, Dad. Three dimensional dreams, movies almost. Only, it’s never good stuff. It’s always someone dying or getting hurt.”

He used to hope for good pictures and dreams. He took plenty of happy photos with the camera, catching images of blissful couples strolling in the park, but the dream pictures never had happy endings. “When I wake up, I know exactly what’s going to happen to the person in the dream. If I’m lucky, I can stop it. I can turn the photo into a good one.”

He could see they weren’t buying it. His father shook his head, and his mother had tears welling in her eyes. They thought he’d lost his mind. “It’s true! I swear it.” He wracked his brain for a way to prove it, but had nothing. “Remember when I was shot?”

“Of course, hon.” She reached across and took his hand, giving it a squeeze. “How is your leg now?”

Mark pulled his hand away in frustration. “It’s fine, but I didn’t get shot because I was taking photos in a bad neighborhood. A cop was going to be killed. I had the photos and dream the night before so I took my camera to the neighborhood as a cover. I had to wait until the right moment, then I tackled the officer just as the drive-by shooting began. That’s a fact.” He pointed at his father. “You can check it out. I never told them the cop was going to get killed, but nobody can dispute that I tackled him just as the passing car sprayed the corner with bullets.”

“Son, I know a doctor, he’s a good guy. You could talk—”

“I don’t need a shrink, Dad. I’m not crazy. I was able to stop it because I knew. It’s not the only time. I stopped dozens of things since I got the camera.” He scrubbed his fingers through his hair and plowed ahead, “That’s what happened to me on September 10th. I took some photos. Nothing special, just some shots of the Chicago River, only that’s not what developed. What I got were pictures of the planes hitting the Twin Towers.”

His mother wiped her hand across her cheek, leaving a wet smudge. “And?”

“Don’t play along with him, Norma.”

Mark ignored his father and focused on his mom. “As soon as the pictures developed, I started calling around. I didn’t know what to do. It was so much bigger than the other things. I looked up numbers of different agencies, but I didn’t have anything concrete to tell them. The details don’t come until I dream.”

He took a sip of his lukewarm coffee. It was the best he’d had in ages, but he couldn’t enjoy it. Not with his dad looking at him with a mixture of revulsion and pity. “I woke up around five o’clock, and began trying to warn somebody. I called the FBI, the U.S. Marshals, the airports, police. Any place I could think of. Hell, I even called the National Guard.”

“Well, you didn’t do any good.”

“No shit, Dad.” He never swore at his father and hated to now. The anger, withheld for so long, burst out despite his attempt to stifle it.

“I know I didn’t do any good. If only people would have listened.” His anger drained out of him along with his energy. There was no point in it. It wouldn’t change anything for the better. He sat back and massaged his brow. “Anyway, I don’t have proof. Not anymore. I did before I was locked up, but I never showed anyone. I don’t blame you for not believing me. Nobody else did either.”

“Didn’t it occur to you that you could get in trouble for making those calls? They’re practically bomb threats.”

Mark nodded. “Yeah. I realized that afterwards, but at the time, I thought I could do something, ya know?” The frustration he had felt that day came back and he shoved a hand through his hair. “What was I supposed to do? Wouldn’t you have tried to do something if you had known?”

His dad’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s this ‘mysterious’ camera? If it’s so special, why didn’t you just show it to them?”

It was difficult to ignore the sarcasm, but he did his best. “I never got a chance. I suppose they took all my equipment, and your guess is as good as mine as to where it is now.”

“You didn’t get anything back?” For the first time, there was a shred of sympathy in his father’s voice.

“No. I went back to the loft and someone else is in my apartment.” Mentioning it to his parents dredged up the pain of his loss again, so he swallowed the lump in his throat and hurried to change the subject. “I told the Feds everything. I told them about the dreams and the camera. I told them about other things I had stopped, but they just thought I was crazy.”

“Oh, Mark.” The sorrow in his mother’s voice tore at his defenses. At least she wasn’t crying any more.

“So, why did they let you go if they didn’t believe you? Couldn’t they make the charges stick?”

“I wasn’t charged with anything.”

“What? That doesn’t make sense. So, it never went to trial?” His dad sounded surprised.