NO GOOD DEED

Chapter One

Special Agent Johnson clicked his pen and angled the pad of paper on the desk. "Let me make sure I have this straight, Mr. Taylor. You claim that there's a terrorist plot to blow up the Red Line, Brown Line and the Blue Line...but you can't tell me how you know this?"

Mark glanced at his watch. Less than an hour until detonation."I told you. I was photographing the El stations and tracks. When I developed the photos, I saw the explosives."

"You were photographing the tracks? Why?"

There was no time for this. He stabbed a hand through his hair. "Look, I'm a photographer. The El has an interesting history and I was trying to capture some of it in photos." It was a lame story, and his face burned as he forced himself to maintain eye contact with the other man.

"Really? I didn't know that."

Mark ignored the agent's sarcasm and continued, "So, this morning, I headed to some of the stations--got some shots. And...well, here--" He un-zipped his jacket and reached in, but froze when Johnson bolted out of his chair.

"Hold it, Taylor!" Johnson braced a hand on the desk and tugged Mark's jacket open with the other hand. "What are you reaching for?"

Mark opened his arms, palms out. "Whoa. I'm just getting my photos out to show you." Never taking his eyes from the agent's, Mark withdrew the envelope. "Here."

Johnson took it, his expression wary, but he eased down onto his chair. The agent studied the three pictures, flipping between the images. He held one up, turned it to catch the light, and squinted, his brow furrowed. "You still haven't answered me. Assuming these are legit, why are you so sure a terrorist group is responsible?" He shuffled one more time through the pictures before tossing them on the desk.

How much should he reveal? The truth? What if they didn't listen and sent him straight to the mental ward? The photographs should be enough evidence of the bombs, and that was the important thing. The rest could be sorted out later.

"Just a guess." He pointed to one photo. "I enlarged this one to show what appears to be a timer of some sort. Each of the bombs had one, all had the same numbers. I-I thought that was pretty high tech." Mark drummed his fingers on the desk. His dream hadn't been clear on the details except for the time the bombs exploded. It showed two men planting the bombs, and if he had to, he could pick them out of a line-up, but he didn't get names and affiliations. The photos showed only the bombs and the aftermath. The pictures depicting the resulting carnage remained at his loft. There was no way he could explain those images.

Johnson fanned the photos, and pointed with his chin. "Finding one bomb by chance is fortunate, finding three is...suspicious. It could even look like you had something to do with them."

Frustration boiled over into anger . In an hour, thousands could be dead. Mark leaned towards the agent, both hands pressed against the desktop, his knuckles whitening. "I get that, but I saw the explosives and I came forward to pass on the information. You want to call me a suspect, go right ahead, but first, get the bombs down before they kill a whole bunch of people."

He met Johnson's narrowed gaze without hesitation. "Aren't you gonna send the bomb squad or something?" Mark didn't know how all this worked, but whatever they needed to do, they needed to do it now. He eased back in the chair.

"Oh, I'm going to investigate your claims, don't worry." With that, the agent reached for the phone, dialing with hard jabs of his finger. His eyes bore into Mark's as he relayed the locations of the explosives. He spoke to someone on the other end, relaying the information, then hung up. He glared at Mark. "Don't go anywhere until I get back."

"I don't plan on it." Not that he had a choice. The click of the lock as Johnson exited left no doubt that he would be a guest of the FBI, willingly or not.

##



Mark rested his head on his folded arms and watched the second hand stutter its way around the face of the clock. What was taking them so long? They'd been gone over two hours already. He pushed away from the desk and paced the office.

The door burst open and Mark jumped back to avoid getting hit.

Johnson stabbed a finger towards the chair. "Sit."

Mark's heart knocked against his ribs as he dropped onto the seat. "What happened? Didn't you find the bombs in time?"

"We found the explosives just where you said they'd be." He slapped a file folder down on the desk and loomed over Mark.

Mark let out a breath and slumped over the table in relief. He'd done it. "That's great." He scrubbed his hands over his face. It had been a long day. "So...I can go now?"

"I don't think so. It seems you neglected to mention the explosives set on the Purple and Orange lines. It's a good thing we checked every track in the city."

"What are you talking about?" Mark stared at the other man in disbelief. How could that be? The film in his camera had produced six photos, three with bombs and three showing the aftermath. That was more than he had ever developed before. "I didn't know about those. Did you get to them in time?"

"We had all the lines shut down, so no trains were affected, but the track is going to need extensive repairs, and," his voice hardened, " a man in a car passing beneath the Orange line was killed."

"Oh God." Mark propped his elbows on the table and ground the heels of his hands against his forehead. It didn't make any sense. Why would the camera fail to show him all the bombs? Why hadn't he dreamed the others? Dropping his hands, he found Johnson watching him. He hadn't seen the other bombs in his dreams, hadn't been forewarned by his camera. "I'm sorry."

"That sounds an awful lot like a confession."

"Confession? For what? I didn't do anything. I'm sorry a man died, but it's not my fault." A scrap of guilt prodded him from a corner of his mind despite his words. What if he'd missed something in the photos? Some clue? Maybe there should have been more photos, but he'd screwed it up somehow.

Johnson pulled out the chair opposite Mark and sat, watching him for a long moment. before he opened the folder. He held up a stack of paper, flipping through them with his thumb on the edges, like it was a paperback. "I need to ask you some more questions."

Mark stared at the stack, then up to the agent's face. "Sure." He should have expected to be questioned--should have come up with a plausible story. His mouth went dry. "Can I have something to drink?"

"Certainly, Mr.Taylor. In fact, why don't you use the facilities, and I'll have someone get us some dinner." Johnson's cold eyes belied the genial tone.

Mark sighed and nodded. He took his time in the bathroom, acutely aware of the guards who had followed him in. As he splashed water on his face, he tried to conjure up a believable story.

When he returned to the office, Johnson set a paper-wrapped submarine sandwich in front of Mark, then bit into his own sandwich. His cheeks bulging as he chewed the enormous bite. He washed it down with a gulp of water from a bottle, and Mark noted a matching bottle beside his meal.

"One thing that puzzles me, Mark. You didn't just bring in these photos because you thought them suspicious...you had some interesting details."

He paused, taking another sip of water before continuing, "For instance, the timers. You gave us exact times when the bombs would blow up, but the timers were counting up, to a pre-set time, not down. Only the person who set them would know for sure what time they would explode. They could have counted up for weeks, and never blown, or for mere minutes. The only thing we know now, from your photos, is that they were set five hours before you took these pictures. So, I have to ask, how did you know?"

Mark unwrapped the sandwich, stalling for time. "I saw the pictures, went home and looked up info on the Internet. After what happened on 9/11, I figured it couldn't hurt to be too careful." Pulling an onion out of the pile of meat, cheese and lettuce, he flicked it to the corner of his paper before taking a bite. The submarine sandwich was good, but nerves had shredded his appetite.

"And you somehow managed to take photos at three different El stations at the exact same time. That is quite a feat."

The thick bread stuck in his throat. He hadn't thought of that. "The times could have been staggered and it was just coincidence that I snapped the photos when the timers had the same readout."

The truth burned on his tongue, begging to get out, but he stifled it by taking another bite of the sub. If he told the agent the truth, they'd brand him crazy. Then they'd confiscate the camera and use if for God only knew what.

He didn't know if the camera would work for anyone who used it, but he couldn't take the chance. The thought of a government having the ability to see the future was terrifying. No one would be safe. As much as he loved his country, he couldn't take that chance.

"So, you don't have an explanation?" Johnson wadded up his wrapper. "Tell you what? I'll give you a little time to think it over, but not in my office. I have things to do. There's a room down the hall that's more appropriate."

Johnson led the way to the other room, with Mark and a group of guards trailing after him. The guards didn't wasn't quite shove Mark into the new room, but one gripped Mark's right bicep and gave him a little push when the door opened. Immediately, the door was shut, leaving him alone.

Mark sank onto one of the two chairs beside a table. Sweat raced down his back and he could feel more gathering on his brow. The room stank of stale cigarettes and body odor, making him gag. He picked at a cigarette burn that scarred the table, then drummed his fingers. After awhile, he leaned back in the chair, one elbow on the table and his head resting on the wall behind him. He glanced at his watch. How long were they going to keep him waiting? The implication that they thought him a suspect had not been lost on him, and he wanted an opportunity to clear up the misunderstanding. The window on his right reflected only the inside of the room and he knew it had to be a one-way mirror. Was someone watching him even now?

He licked his lips, wishing he'd brought the bottle of water with him from Johnson's office. Should he tell them about the camera? If they searched his loft, they'd find it anyway. It might be better to just tell them. After proving to them that the camera worked, he could destroy it so it couldn't tempt anyone to use it for the wrong purpose.

Two hours passed and he tried to stay awake, but his head drooped. When he awoke, he blinked, disoriented before he remembered where he was.

The door opened and his heart tripled its rate. Even though he wanted to straighten the mess out and had wished someone would come talk to him, a shiver of fear shook his body. Johnson led a pair of agents into the room. He carried the folder and set it on the table across from Mark. It was thicker now.

He watched Johnson pull a chair out and settle onto it before taking out a pair of glasses and perching them on the end of his nose. Mark hunched over the table, keenly aware of the two other Feds flanking him.

Johnson tapped the folder with one index finger. "I have some very disturbing information about you, Mr. Taylor. Especially in light of recent events."

"There's an explanation. This is all just a misunderstanding." Mark's head began to ache, and he rubbed his temples.

"After doing some digging, I found out that you made a series of phone calls on the morning of September eleventh to various government agencies." He opened the folder and sorted through several documents. Running a finger down a line of print, he added, "Calls that began a full three hours before the planes hit?"

"Yeah, I did. I left my name." Taking a deep breath, he straightened.

"You seem to have the scoop on terrorist activities. How do you come by your information?" Johnson leaned towards Mark and said, "And I must caution you that withholding important details will only make it go worse for you."

"It's gonna sound crazy, but hear me out." He had to spill the beans. "See, the thing is, I have this camera and when I take pictures, the photos sometimes come out much differently than..." He hesitated and rubbed the back of his neck. How could he explain this in a way that would make sense?

Johnson cleared his throat and cut in, "Get on with it."

Mark swallowed. "Sorry." He wiped his hands on his thighs and darted a look at the other agents. "The photos--they show up in my dreams, only with more detail. And my dreams...they come true." Johnson narrowed his eyes and Mark rushed on, "It's true and because I see what happens before it happens, I can change it...sometimes."

He closed his eyes as the visions of the planes hitting the towers played in his mind. "Only, it didn't work on September eleventh. There wasn't enough time. That dream...well, I've had some bad ones before, but..." He shuddered and opened his eyes, but couldn't get the images out of his head. He ground the heel of his hand against his brow as if he could erase them.

"Stop!" Johnson slapped his hand down on the table top.

Mark jumped, then froze.


"I don't have time for this crap. We have tapes of your calls from that day, then today, you show up with these photographs and details of bombs. A man is dead." He let that sink in.

Mark felt his face flush as misplaced guilt that he hadn't been able to stop that tragedy flooded him.

"We have records that you traveled to Afghanistan two years ago. We know that you associated with Mohommad Aziz, a suspected terrorist."

Mo? A terrorist? Mark didn't buy it. He had known the guy for years. He was no more a terrorist than Fred Flintstone.

Johnson took a sheet of paper out of the folder, grabbed a pen from his shirt pocket and shoved them both across the table. "Write down everything you did and the names of the people you met in Afghanistan."

Anger boiled inside of him, and Mark tried to shove it down. He took a deep breath and eased the paper back towards Johnson. "I already admitted I made the calls, and you have the tapes. I told you about the camera and the photos. I warned you about the bombs today."

Glancing at the two agents beside him, and then back to Johnson, he shrugged. "Yeah, I did go to Afghanistan. It was work related. Mo Aziz is a free-lance photojournalist I've known for about five years now."

Mark shook his head. "He's no terrorist. He's a good guy. He wanted to do a story on women's rights, or lack of them, actually, in that country. Mo had some connections there, so we were able to go places where outsiders aren't normally welcome. He interviewed the people and I took the photos. It was a hell of a book and I was proud to help with the photos."

Johnson's eyebrows rose and his voice dripped sarcasm, "Did the book ever get published?"

Mark clenched his jaw. "No, unfortunately. Nobody was interested in the plight of the women of Afghanistan at the time. Last I talked to Mo, he was still shopping it around."

"So, you have no proof that this book exists?"

"I have my negatives," Mark said. "You're welcome to see them." Should he have offered them? Maybe he should ask for a lawyer. His hope that this would all be sorted out quickly was fading.

"Believe me, we will. In fact, a search warrant on your home has already been executed."

"Oh." Shit that was fast.

"That make you nervous?" Johnson smiled for the first time, and Mark wanted to punch the smug look right off his face.

"No." His voice shook with anger so he cleared his throat. It wouldn't help matters to lose his temper. Johnson motioned to the agent on the left.

"Why don't you get Mark something to drink?" He looked at Mark. "You have any preference? Coffee? Soda?"

He wanted to refuse, but fear and anxiety caused his mouth to feel like cotton. "Water's fine."

Mark tapped his foot on the floor as Johnson thumbed through a stack of papers in the folder. What could they have in there about him? He started to lean forward, hoping he could see, but Johnson raised his head and glared at him.

The agent returned with a bottle of water and set it in front of Mark. Before he could take a drink, Johnson said, "So, why don't we start over. I'm willing to pretend that this conversation has just begun. What do you say, Mark?"

Mark set the bottle down untouched. "I've told you everything already." Maybe he should tell them about his other dreams? They could go question some of the people who had been in them. People he had saved. There were dozens of them. He didn't know all of their names, but he remembered some."If you've done all this fact-digging on me, then you'll know about other times I've had dreams that came true. The Chicago P.D. knows. Have you talked to them?"

Johnson chuckled. "Oh, you can be sure we did. They know you all right. Let's see, Detective Cruz says that you spoiled three months worth of work when you tackled him just as he was about to make an undercover buy. They could have arrested a dozen gang members in that one."

"Cruz was going to be shot. Did he mention that?" It should have been part of the file. The guy Hanson was buying from had been killed when a rival gang sped past spraying bullets as they went.

Johnson's lips curled again into a smirk. "That's just one of a very long list of incidents you've been in with the police, so I don't think you're high on their list of favorite Chicago citizens."

"You make it sound like I'm a criminal...or a terrorist." He rested his elbows on the table and folded his arms around the back of his head. The headache had reached migraine level and the bright lights in the room didn't help. Lifting his head, he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, can I talk to a lawyer?"

"At the moment, I'm done questioning you."

Before Mark could sag in relief, Johnson nodded towards the mirror. Seconds later, four police officers burst into the room.

"Stand up!"

Fear drenched Mark and he swallowed hard. It was an effort to get his legs to obey the signal to stand. Immediately, his arms were wrenched behind him and he winced when handcuffs snapped around his wrists. "What's going on?"

Special Agent Johnson looked him in the eye and said, "Mark Taylor, you are under arrest as a material witness for terrorist acts against the United States."