Mary McDonald - No good deed

He swallowed and his voice was rough when he said, “I know.”

An hour later, he trotted down the EL platform steps and headed west. His photos had shown a warehouse engulfed in flames, but even worse, in his dream, he’d seen two people trapped inside the building. Two blocks later, he turned north. The area teemed with warehouses, but the one he sought sported a faded red logo on the side. It might have been a cardinal at one time, but the elements had turned it into nothing more than a faint outline. It was still easy to spot and he tried the front door. Locked. Of course.

The dream had omitted a key piece of information-where the fire would start. Without that, Mark could only guess. He circled to the back, skirting around an overflowing Dumpster. Pot holes filled with stagnant water dotted the pavement, and he swore when he stepped in one and flooded his shoe. Shaking his foot, he approached the deserted loading dock. Where the hell was everyone?

“Hello?” Silence. Mark swung up onto the cement block. There had to be somebody around. At least the two who were in his dream should be somewhere about. The large door was closed, so he tried a smaller one beside it. It opened, and Mark chalked one up in his favor as he stepped into the dim interior. His earlier jitters settled into a low hum of energy. The cavernous room was empty except for broken boxes and trash littering the floor. His footsteps echoed and dust motes clogged the air as he crossed to a door on the far side of the room.

Smoke. More than just dust filled the air-some of it was smoke. Tendrils licked around the base of the door. He touched the wood. It was warm, but not hot. This door had been in the dream and he was sure he could open it without facing flames. Still, he cringed when he pushed it open.

He coughed at the first blast of heat and smoke. His eyes watered and he crouched as he went left.

“Hey! Anybody in here?”

“Help!”

The cry came from directly behind him, and Mark spun. “Where are you?”

“We’re stuck in here!”

The voice came from behind a heavy metal door. Mark tried the doorknob. “It’s locked!”

He scanned the hall for anything he could use to pry open the door.

“We hid in here when the watchman came by this morning, now we’re locked in. There’s a crowbar behind the door by the loading dock. Hurry!” Coughing punctuated the instructions.

Mark raced back the way he’d come, looked behind the door and found the tool. When he reached the door, a fit of coughing overtook him and he crouched for a few seconds, hoping the clearer air close to the floor would ease his breathing.

Straightening, he jammed the flat end between the door and the jamb and pushed. He groaned with the strain. The door wouldn’t budge.

Sweat ran into his eyes and he swiped his forearm across his forehead before bending to grab another lungful of air to try again. The latch broke with his second effort and he had to catch himself before he fell into the room.

The men rushed past him, and Mark staggered after them, but when they got outside, he didn’t stop to chat, he just handed one the crowbar and kept walking. His throat burned and getting a drink of water was his second priority. His first was to use the pay phone up the block and call in the fire.

As he hung up the phone, he broke into a grin. He’d done it. He was back. A quick stop in a mini-mart for a bottle of water, and then he was up the steps to the “L”. Fellow passengers wrinkled their noses at him as he walked through the car, but he didn’t care. His heart raced with excess adrenaline and his hands still shook. It was the best feeling in the world. He thought of Jessie and amended his thought. It was the second best feeling in the world.

Mark examined the latest photos in the dim red light. What the hell? He looked at the whole batch and swore as he made sense of the images. Bodies and…blood? Bodies of men, women and children, teens and senior citizens-people who’d probably just been celebrating only moments before the photos were snapped-lay sprawled where they fell.

A white flag with a blue ‘W’ curled into the corner of the photo. He recognized that flag. Wrigley Field. Bile burned the back of his throat. Instead of one or two pictures depicting a tragedy, five photos had developed. Every one of them showed the same scenes, the only difference was the gate number over the exit tunnel.

This was big. Mark’s hand shook as he hung the last photo to dry. How would he stop this? Who could do something so horrible? He shook his head. Stupid question. The real question was why?

He wasn’t even sure what had killed the people. Leaning forward, he peered at the photos looking for clues. Other than the blood and bodies, there didn’t seem to be much out of the ordinary. There was no debris or smoke, so a bomb wasn’t likely. For so many to die or be injured, it had to have been something quick. Automatic gunfire?

As he studied the photos, he began seeing individuals. A blond woman still clutching a small child. Poking out from beneath a man was a tiny foot. A baby. Mark gagged and braced his hands on the counter, hanging his head. Several slow deep breaths later, he tried again, taking each photo down. They were dry enough.

He didn’t want to see the faces, he only wanted to find clues, but his eye was drawn to the faces despite his attempts to look past them. It was no use. Every body became a person. Every person became someone’s child, someone’s mother, someone’s best friend.

Or someone’s torturer. Mark snapped the fourth picture from the clip. Shit! Jim Sheridan. What the hell was he doing at a Cub’s game? Not that it mattered. He was there in the picture. A victim just like the rest.

He couldn’t look anymore. Not now.

What the hell was he supposed to do with these pictures? Mark yanked open the door of the dark room and stalked to the kitchen. He could throw them out. The trash was right there. He could pretend he had never seen them. His shoulders slumped. No he couldn’t. As tempting as it was, the dream would come tonight no matter what. Tossing out the photos wouldn’t change that.

What he needed was a shot of whiskey or a tumbler full of scotch, but he would have to make do with a lite beer.

Half the beer went down in one long guzzle, then he grabbed a second out of the fridge, tucked the pictures under his arm, and trudged to the sofa. He dropped the stack of pictures on the coffee table. In a corner of his mind, he had an idea that if he got plastered, maybe the dream that finished off the photos would never materialize.

He finished the beer and opened the second before flipping on the television, seeking distraction. His eyes kept straying to the pictures despite the baseball game playing on TV. Maybe because of it. The second beer went down almost as fast as the first, and he debated getting a third. Before he made up his mind, the phone rang, but he let it go three rings before he bothered to check the caller ID. It was Jessie. Part of him was glad, he hadn’t had a chance to talk to her yet today as she’d had an early meeting, but right at the moment, he wasn’t in the mood to talk.

“Yeah?” There was a gaping silence on the other end and Mark winced, picturing Jessie’s surprise at his abrupt answer.

“Well, aren’t you full of sunshine and light.” She was pissed.

Mark closed his eyes and circled the heel of his hand on his forehead. “Sorry, Jess. I just developed my film.”

Jessie’s voice lost its sarcasm. “It’s a bad one? What happens?”

He nodded to the first question even though she couldn’t see it. “Yeah. Real bad. Something big. And…and there’s something else…”