The Wrong Man (4 page)

Facing the exercise yard with his back to the wall of F Block, Bishop shook his head at the scene in front of him. A small
guy was attempting to drive a long shot from thirty yards, only to crumple under an intercept from a huge point guard. He
obviously hadn’t yet worked out that pace could only get you so far. To beat them you had to
be crafty.

Standing there was about as much exercise as Bishop could hope for since the library incident a fortnight before. With the
contract out on him, it was too dangerous. Even a trip to the shower room had to be carefully planned in advance.

The official investigation had been a joke, as he knew it would be. As long as the status quo wasn’t
disrupted too much, nobody
really gave a damn who got hurt. Alvin was currently on a morphine drip in the prison infirmary, but those who mattered knew
what had gone down once his partner spilled his guts to the current chief of the Aryan Brotherhood. And of course, Bishop
had immediately been labelled a ‘target of opportunity’. Within days, he had successfully fended
off two separate attacks.
Nothing since then, but it was only a matter of time.

A smart man would have closed the book on the two Aryans when he had the chance, but cold-blooded executions had never really
been his style. Besides, he figured two unnecessary killings here would have brought down additional security he could do
without.

Raising his head to the guard turrets atop the sixty-foot-high concrete walls on this west side, Bishop saw six – no, seven
– equally spaced armed guards looking down. He knew behind those walls, surrounding the entire prison, lay a concrete no-man’s-land
filled with cameras, motion detectors and highly trained dogs. And if, by some miracle, you made it that far you
had an impenetrable
twenty-foot-high barrier of razor wire to look forward to.

There was always a way, though. Always.

He took a deep breath. The effect of the sun on his face was calming
and he closed his eyes, relishing the feeling. It would be so easy to let go for a few moments. Just a few. Since being sent
down, Bishop’s sleep patterns
had been erratic at best. And it wasn’t because of the noise. Eight years in the Marine Corps
and you learn to sleep anywhere, under any conditions. This was different. In here, any time he began to drift off at night,
his mind began working and reworking the same questions that consumed his waking hours. Keeping him awake and further feeding
the anger that bubbled away
at a steady boil just beneath the surface. But Bishop liked that anger. It kept him sharp and
motivated. It had been a constant companion for the last two years and eight months, and he’d be taking it with him when he
left. That was for damn sure.

Still, at least Falstaff had come through like he promised. Bishop reached under his collar, letting his fingers
brush across
the thick black band around his neck until they found the smooth, polished surface of the onyx totem hanging underneath.

He let the insults being thrown across the court wash over him as he rubbed the Buddha icon, visualizing a beer in one hand
and two hours to waste at the Giants Stadium watching the Red Bulls slaughter the visitors. Yeah, the
small pleasures definitely
took on greater significance when they were taken away from you.

But now wasn’t the time to let his guard down. Especially not with the all-important delivery tomorrow.

Exercise time was almost over. Pushing away from the wall, he moved back inside F Block before everyone else got called in,
his senses on high alert
as he began the long trek back to the cell. He passed small groups of cons of varying ethnic denominations,
most of whom avoided him like the plague, and managed to keep a minimum of three feet between himself and the rest of the
human race as he moved amongst them.

He entered the main section and looked up at the three tiers of cells. The incessant din of
two hundred prisoners packed closely
together filled the air like smoke. More would join once they blew the whistle in the yard. Cons walked in and out of cells,
playing cards, boiling noodles, making deals and avoiding eyes. Some would be in the TV room on the second tier, catching
up on the soaps. Most faces turned from him as he passed. Word had gotten around he wasn’t
long for this world and nobody
wanted to be seen talking to a dead man.

Bishop climbed the stairs and at the top tier turned left on the catwalk
with his hand on the rail. As he walked towards his two-man cell, he noticed all the other cells between the stairs and his
were empty. And he didn’t see any movement in the ones beyond, either.

He came to a stop outside the cubicle he’d called home for the last three years and stared at the two large men waiting for
him inside.

For whatever reason, a con involved in a conflict with a fellow inmate might find himself unable or unwilling to tackle the
problem on his own, and that’s usually where the Three Bears came in. Big Bear, Bigger Bear and Biggest Bear. For a price,
they would transfer any load onto their large shoulders and bring a natural end to the conflict.

Once the Three Bears were hired, the client received three guarantees. One: the job would be completed exactly to his specifications.
Two: only hands would be used. And three: it would be expensive. In a climate where few could be trusted, the Three Bears
prided themselves on their professionalism, their success rate and the almost surgical precision with
which they could inflict
injury on a person’s body. Sometimes to within an inch of that person’s life. Occasionally beyond, if the rumours were true.

Two of them were currently occupying Bishop’s cell.

‘Meatloaf day today,’ said Bigger Bear, the more effusive brother. His black hair was cropped close to the skull and he had
intricate tattoos
from the neck down. He lay on Bishop’s lower bunk reading one of Jorge’s long letters from his ex-wife.
‘How was it?’

Bishop leaned against the cell door, his expression neutral, his mind refusing to let his body respond to the danger the brothers
represented. First rule in here: never let anyone know what you’re really thinking or feeling. But then, that
had never been
much of a problem for Bishop. ‘How was what?’ he asked.

Big Bear turned from Bishop’s small, barred window and said, ‘You know . . .’ He raised an imaginary spoon to his mouth and made
chewing motions before turning back to the window.

Bishop shrugged. ‘Not hungry.’

‘Wise man,’ Bigger Bear said and continued
reading the letter. After a few seconds Bishop saw the shadow of Biggest Bear hit
the cell wall in front of him. It was substantially taller and wider than his. That made three, then. Bears always came in
threes.

After a while, Bigger shook his head, put the letter down and rose from the bunk. He had three inches on Bishop and looked
down
at him with a puzzled frown. ‘Your cellmate’s seriously weird, man. Still writing puppy dog letters to a bitch who left
him for another fool five years ago. What’s with that?’

Bishop shrugged again. ‘I don’t ask.’

‘Maybe you should.’ Bigger Bear started tapping his forefinger repeatedly against his upper lip and looked past Bishop to
Biggest
Bear. Bishop felt a large hand urge him into the centre of the room.

‘Me, I’m curious about everything and everyone,’ Bigger said. ‘Like you, man.’

‘What you see is what you get.’

‘What I see, I don’t get. For instance, why’d you turn that white boy into a cyclops?’

‘We had a slight disagreement.’

‘Yeah? Over what?’

‘Whose turn it was to borrow the library’s only copy of
Little Women
.’

Bishop heard a throaty chuckle from behind him, but Bigger’s frown remained. Big Bear had turned from the window and was watching
his brother closely.

Bigger sighed. ‘A comedian. Still, a contract’s a contract.’ He looked at a point above Bishop’s head and said,
‘Okay.’

A large, bronze, hairless arm encircled Bishop’s neck and pulled him back like an anaconda with its prey. Instinctively, Bishop
brought both hands up to the man’s arm, but the other two brothers took Bishop’s wrists and yanked them behind his body. Somehow
Biggest Bear managed to grip both in his one massive hand. Bishop could still use his legs, but all
other avenues had been
closed in three quick actions.

Bigger Bear left his line of sight, presumably to act as lookout, while the smallest brother flexed his fingers several times.
His face grew solemn as he let his eyes roam over Bishop’s anatomy. The lower torso seemed to get the most attention. After
a few moments he pursed his lips, clenched
both fists into hard balls and pulled his right arm back.

Bishop felt a sudden, flaring agony in his midriff. It was unlike any pain he’d known, despite his experiences in the Corps.
Jesus Christ, that was one punch
. His stomach felt like someone had set fire to it. When he finally finished hacking, he raised his eyes to see Big Bear in
the
same boxer’s crouch
as before. This time Bishop saw the strike coming and clenched his muscles just before it made contact.

It didn’t help.

He dry-heaved and the pain only intensified. He tasted blood at the back of his throat and coughed repeatedly.

When his breathing eventually returned to normal, Big Bear approached him and lifted his head up by the hair, studied
his
face for a few seconds. He then looked at Bigger by the doorway, still flexing his right hand. A silent exchange was taking
place but Bishop had no clue as to what was being said.

Big turned back and released Bishop’s hair. Then he drew back his right arm once more.

Unlocking the door to C-1, Brendan Cook entered the room reserved for the more volatile patients. It was a smallish room.
Two beds bolted to the floor, separated by a wide aisle and a barred window. He looked over at the unconscious man on the
left-hand bed. A real mess this one, inside and out, with bandages covering much of his face and
an IV drip protruding from
each arm.

‘How’s it hanging, doc?’

Cook jumped at the muffled, tinny sound coming from the pocket of his white coat. He checked his diver’s watch. 02.03 already
and he’d forgotten to check in. Pulling the walkie-talkie out, he pressed the transmit button.

‘Sore, but satisfied,’ he said. ‘Hey, remind
me to tell you about it sometime.’

Bill Carmody’s Texas twang became more pronounced. ‘You got me curious now, son. We got ourselves some stuff to catch up on.’

Cook grinned down at the comatose form on the bed. ‘Give you something to look forward to an hour from now.’

‘Juicy, huh?’

‘Maybe more than you can handle.’

Carmody
chuckled. ‘Okay, son. Don’t let me down now.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Cook said and put the radio back in his pocket.

Man, he was shattered. He’d picked up a babe called Leona at a bar in Elmshire and finally managed to break free of her a
couple of hours before his shift. That girl had definitely shown him a trick or two. Although she hadn’t been as enthusiastic
about the facial hair. Maybe he’d shave off the goatee and surprise her next time he saw her.

He bent down to check the sleeping figure’s pulse and then raised the man’s sole eyelid, flashing his penlight at the pupil.
Still dilated. Still no reaction. Too bad, Alvin Farrell.

Alvin had been brought in two weeks before with a cracked
skull and a hole where his left eye used to be. As usual, Cook hadn’t
bothered to check his med sheet and put him straight on morphine. It was only when the patient failed to wake up after three
days that he noticed the hand-written notation at the bottom of the allergies section:
Possibility of relapse if opium-based sedatives introduced into patient’s system
. He figured a coma
qualified as a relapse.

Leona might have been troubled to learn of two similar incidents involving her new lover over the past year. Alvin could make
it three if he didn’t wake soon.

Cook shrugged. Shit happened. At least in the prison system the repercussions were minimal. Almost non-existent, in fact.
The outside world forgot these
dregs existed as soon as they arrived, so why lose sleep over the one or two who got lost along
the way? Still smiling, he patted the patient on the shoulder and moved towards the man in the other bed.

James Bishop was still in the same position as when he’d checked an hour before. Not that he would have been able to move
much even if he wanted. His right
wrist was cuffed to the bed railing on Cook’s orders. Guy was some kind of badass ex-bodyguard
in for life on a triple murder charge, and Cook thought it best to take precautions. ‘Better safe than sorry’ was a good rule
to live by in here.

Somebody had really gone to town on Bishop. The guards had brought him in last night, bloody and unconscious with severe
bruising
to the body. His stomach resembled a slab of week-old raw meat. There was probably internal haemorrhaging but Cook wasn’t
ready to cut him open and investigate just yet. Past experience had made him a little nervous about that sort of thing. He’d
given the guy some painkillers and was content to let nature take its course for the time being. Bishop would either
regain
consciousness or he wouldn’t. Then he’d decide.

Cook studied the man’s features. He seemed about the same age as himself. Thirty-three, maybe a couple of years older, but
his face had developed lines and character that Cook’s lacked. His gaze travelled down to Bishop’s throat. That was odd. He
could swear Bishop had come in with a fat, polished
Buddha around his neck. Previously, patients would only be admitted to
the infirmary building once they’d been relieved of all personal items. But thanks to pressure from the prison’s Muslim population,
non-metallic religious totems were now permitted.
Still, maybe one of the guards had liked the look of it and taken it for himself. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Spend enough
time with thieves
, he thought.

Cook started to feel uncomfortable. He couldn’t shake the feeling Bishop was watching him through closed eyelids. The physical
similarities were beginning to unsettle him, too. As he turned for the door, he decided that maybe he
would
shave his goatee off when he got home.

He’d only taken three steps when he heard
the sound of metal on metal and then an arm clamped itself around his neck and pulled
him to the floor.