Mary McDonald - No good deed

Mark darted a look at him. “Why?” His voice was hoarse from disuse, and he cleared his throat. There had to be an ulterior motive. Jim’s face hardened and Mark raised his chin a notch. This was the man he knew. He could handle this.

For a long moment, their eyes clashed and Mark felt a thrill of triumph when Jim looked away first and shook his head. “Fine, eat it or not. I don’t care.” Jim took a bite of his burger and Mark turned his head, the sight of the food making him light-headed.

The thrill of winning died in the next few minutes as he remained at the table, hearing the crunch of the lettuce, smelling the charcoal-grilled meat and the aroma of French fries. What had he won? Nothing. Mark took a deep breath. “I…uh…I’m sorry. I just…I don’t know what you want from me.”

Jim sighed and dropped the fry he held. “I just thought it would be something special for your birthday. We’re not heartless here.”

Shocked, Mark stared at Jim. “It’s my birthday?” It was September eighth? He had been here only ten months?

He was thirty-six years old. Were his parents thinking of him today? Or did they think him a terrorist? Last year, he had spent the day at a Cub’s game. The sun had been hot, the beer cold, and the home team even won the game. He closed his eyes, picturing the deep green ivy covered walls, the emerald diamond and the flags on the center-field scoreboard blowing straight out. Towering above the team flags had been the American flag. He opened his eyes and blinked hard.

“You didn’t know?”

Mark shook his head. How could he have known? It wasn’t like he had a calendar tacked to the wall of his cell.

“Well…shit. Yes, it’s your birthday.” Jim waved to the food in front of Mark. “ So eat up. It’s not poisoned.”

“I can’t…sir.”

“Why the hell not?” The irritation was back in his voice and he gave Mark a sharp look.

Mark bit back a sarcastic reply. This was probably just another way to to torment him. He lifted his hands as far as they would go. If he stretched, he could just touch the edge of the sandwich.

Jim’s face flushed. “Oh.” He called a guard over and instructed him to detach the shackles from the waist chain.

The other man’s embarrassment surprised him, but he didn’t dwell on it. He allowed himself to breathe in the scent of the burger, letting it fill his nose and make his mouth water. Then he took a bite, closing his eyes and savoring the taste and texture. The sauce mixed with the crisp lettuce and tomato and complemented the hot and juicy burger. Pure heaven.

He washed it down with an ice cold soft drink. It made him think of all the times he had eaten this exact same meal. Usually he was with a friend for lunch or late in the evening after a long photo shoot. It was normal. Ordinary. So ordinary, it made his throat tighten and he had to take another long gulp of the soft drink to get the food down. What he missed most was normal life.

Half-way through the meal, it hit him that when he finished eating, he would go back to his cell. Back to his surreal life in a nine-by-six room with white cinder block walls. This meal- this taste of his usual life-it was just a brief interlude. Nothing more. His hands shook and his stomach churned. No longer hungry, Mark set the half-eaten sandwich down.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like it?” Jim balled up his wrapper and stuffed it in the bag. He tried to quell his anger. Jim probably hadn’t meant to be cruel, but that only made it harder. Mark took a deep breath. “I liked it fine, sir.” For the first time, he lied to the other man. “Thank you. I appreciate the meal.” He touched his stomach. “I’m full, that’s all.” A wave of nausea ripped through him and he prayed he would make it back to his cell before the food came back up.

Jim drummed his fingers on the armrest of the cab as it inched through Chicago’s morning rush hour. His superiors had denied his official travel request, stating that they felt Officer Daly’s report was sufficient and that nothing more could be gained from that line of inquiry. Undeterred, he’d put in for some personal time and paid for the trip himself. So, he was here unofficially. That might be better anyway. If he didn’t find anything useful, he wouldn’t have to admit it to Bill.

Almost an hour later, Jim tossed his bag on the bed in his room. He thought about following it down and taking a quick nap, but it was already after ten. He had a lot of ground to cover before his return flight tomorrow evening. First on his agenda was finding Detective Jessica Bishop. According to his notes, she worked out of the fifth precinct. Jim changed from his rumpled traveling clothes and put on a crisp white shirt, blue tie and black pants. Just because it was technically vacation didn’t mean he couldn’t look official.

Jim paused outside the police station, double checking the precinct number. Satisfied he was at the right one, he pushed through the doors and strode up to the desk sergeant. “I’m looking for Detective Jessica Bishop. Can you direct me to her office please?”

“Who are you?” The man squinted up from his paperwork.

This was the tricky part. Bishop didn’t know him. This wasn’t official business so Jim couldn’t declare that he was with the CIA. He didn’t want to lie, either. He settled for a half-truth. “I’m Jim Sheridan. Detective Bishop and I have a mutual friend, so I thought while I was in town on business, I’d come by and introduce myself.” He pulled out his wallet and showed his driver’s license.

The sergeant raised an eyebrow, but then shrugged. “Whatever.” He waved a hand towards the right. “Her office is third door on the left. But she ain’t there now.” With that, he went back to whatever he was doing with the papers.

Jim braced his hands on the desk and leaned towards the sergeant’s face. “Any idea when she might return, or where she might be? I promised I’d meet her when I was in town.”

The man sighed and rolled his eyes. “Look, I ain’t her secretary. You might find her in the file room. It’s back that-away.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.

“Thanks. You’ve been so much help.” Jim headed in the direction the man had indicated and peered in three offices, inquiring in each if anyone had seen Jessica Bishop. No one had any idea and he was beginning to wish he had called first. He’d thought about it, but didn’t want to give up the advantage of surprise. He had found that it was easier to read a person that way. A door marked FILE ROOM was ajar, and he pushed it open and stepped in.

“You the one looking for me?”

Jim turned towards the voice behind him. She was taller than he expected, only a few inches shorter than his five-foot ten. He had seen a standard file photo of her, but in person, even with her hair in a tight bun, she was striking. She watched him warily.

“Detective Jessica Bishop?”

She nodded, her eyes never leaving his face. “And you are?”

Jim stuck his hand out. “Jim Sheridan.”

For a long moment, she studied him before she shook his hand. Her grip was strong and her eyes hard. “What can I do for you?”

Jim looked over her shoulder to the busy station. “I know this is unexpected. I flew out on the chance I could talk to you when I should have made an appointment, but do you have some time? I’d like to talk to you. Somewhere quiet, if possible. It’s about a mutual acquaintance.”

“Who is it?” Jessica glanced away, and he saw her reluctance and irritation. She held a stack of files and her eyes went from the clock then down to the files in her hand as though weighing in her mind if she had time to waste talking to him