The Wrong Man (7 page)

Bishop walked to the paved patio at the rear of the house. Each concrete slab measured twenty inches by twenty. He counted
them off from where they met the east fence. Seven to the right, four down. And stopped at the one with the small chip in
the top right corner.

He went over to pick up the shovel and inserted
it between the cracks. The metal bent a little under the strain but held tight.
It took four goes before he got enough leverage to pry the stone block out. Embedded in the earth underneath was a rectangular
object about the size of a hardback book, wrapped in a layer of protective plastic sheeting.

Removing the sheeting, Bishop opened the blank DVD case.
Seeing it again felt odd. He’d always had it there, just in case,
but had hoped he’d never have to use what it held. The feeling hardened into a familiar anger. Followed by the same resolve:
to find the person who had taken his old life away from him.

He pulled out the bundle of bank notes held together by an elastic band and added it to the remains of Brendan’s
money in
his pocket. He didn’t need to count it. There would be five thousand dollars, just like there had been six years ago. Taped
to the inside of the case were two keys. He replaced the stone slab.

Unlocking the rear door, he entered the bare kitchen and walked through the equally spartan dining room. The downstairs smelled
faintly of old carpet
cleaner with a hint of bleach. He didn’t stop to check anything, instead climbing the stairs near the
front of the house.

Bishop never expected to feel anything when he came back here. Memories of his parents had faded to the point where he had
to concentrate to bring up their faces, although he still remembered the day he learned of their deaths in a road
accident.
It had been the evening of his tenth birthday, the last one he ever celebrated. From that point on, he’d reasoned that if
he couldn’t control the fates of those he loved, he’d
just have to be more discerning about who he let inside. Amy excepted, of course.

The following years spent under the care of Tom and Annabel had only enforced that belief.
At least Amy, six years older,
only had to put up with them for a year before taking off for college. Bishop had been glad for her. He knew she’d stay in
close contact and make regular visits, and that was enough for him. But he’d have to wait another six years before he could
escape, too.

He guessed the fact that they seemed to show more affection
for this house than for their own blood explained his mixed feelings
for the place. And Amy’s negative ones. Thing was, he knew this would make a perfect family home for somebody. Just not him.
Not after his experiences here. And although he’d always enjoyed visiting Amy and her family whenever he got the chance, he
wasn’t sure he could handle one of his own. He wasn’t
the fatherly type. It occurred to him that maybe this was also partly
due to Tom and Annabel’s influence. Their general aloofness could have rubbed off on him more than he cared to admit. For
most of his adult life, he’d avoided letting anybody get too close and he couldn’t blame it all on his reaction to his parents’
deaths. It was no wonder Amy wanted nothing to do with
the place.

But right now, it had its uses.

At the second-floor landing, Bishop entered the first door on the left. The drapes in his old bedroom were drawn, but the
light fabric let in enough daylight. His bed was still against the wall. He walked over to the window and checked through
a gap in the drapes. The two cops were still in their Plymouth,
still looking everywhere but up.

He turned, took off the baseball cap and dropped his full length onto the bed. A cloud of dust glittered in the soft light
of the room. He closed his eyes and relief washed over him like a wave. He was out. He’d made it. He didn’t know for how long,
or even if he’d still be alive this time tomorrow, but he was here now. On
the outside. He’d forgotten how much he missed
having empty space around him. And he knew at that moment he wouldn’t go back inside. Not for anything. They’d have to kill
him first.

The thought forced him off the bed. He needed to concentrate. It wouldn’t be easy finding who’d set him up, he knew that,
but he’d look at everything with the same commitment
and focus he’d always had.

Inside the built-in closet next to the bed were five deep shelves
that held his few remaining possessions. He’d never been particularly materialistic, but some things were hard to get rid
of. Or maybe just easier to hold onto, he’d never figured out which. He took hair clippers from behind the books and CDs on
the second shelf down
and tossed them on the bed, along with a number four blade and a spare set of batteries.

On the carpeted floor lay his old equipment bag and he knelt down and unzipped it. Feeling under his Corps fatigues and dress
uniform he pulled out his old M9 service Beretta with the serial numbers filed off. Another holdover from Staff Sergeant Hill’s
school of life:
You never know when you might need an untraceable gun
. Or at least,
most
people never know. Funny thing was, many of his fellow NCOs back in the day had looked down on the M9. Bishop had never understood
why. In his experience, it was more than up to the task it had been designed for. He also pulled out a box of ammunition and
his cleaning kit and placed them on the bed with the
gun.

The second shelf from the bottom held his last surviving clothes and he inserted his hand under the pile until his fingers
touched something hard. He removed the black 9¼-inch USMC Ka-Bar combat knife and ankle holster. These joined his Beretta
on the bed.

After giving the street below another glance, Bishop picked up the clippers,
the number four blade and the batteries and walked
to the bathroom.

Bishop cocked a round into the chamber, flicked the safety on and tucked the 9mm in the back of his pants as though it were
the most natural thing in the world. Which, to him, it kind of was. A little oil and TLC and the action felt as smooth now
as when he’d last used it eleven
years ago, back when he was in uniform.

Bishop picked up the folded bed sheet containing his prison hair and unhooked his leather jacket from the back of the door
and slipped it on. As he descended the stairs, he brushed his hand across his new buzzcut. He felt like a new man again. Looked
like one, too. Amy always said Mom had passed on her youthful good
looks to both her kids, but while that might have been
true in his sister’s case, Bishop now looked every one of his thirty-six years. In the mirror, he’d noticed a few extra lines
around the mouth and forehead that hadn’t been there before and his hair had receded a little above the temples since the
last
time he’d paid it any attention. Hopefully, the changes would
work in his favour.

At the bottom, Bishop passed the door to the living room and opened the one to the garage. He walked over to the pile of old
newspapers in the corner and inserted the folded bed sheet in between some damp, ancient copies of the
Times
.

Retracing his steps, Bishop locked the kitchen door and reburied the DVD case under the stone
slab in the patio. It only held
the two keys now, but he didn’t want to carry any connection to this house on his person. Plus he might need to use the place
again.

Staring at the fence, he took the Advil from his pocket and downed three. They were helping, but not much. As good as he could
hope for over the counter; anything heavier would need a
prescription. But then, climbing over fences probably wasn’t helping
much either.

Sighing, he pulled himself up to the top again and eventually landed on the other side. He got up, took the sunglasses from
his jacket pocket and put them on. As he walked back through his neighbours’ property to Katan, he thought of a magazine article
he’d read a few
years back. A profile of a retired Marshal named Sandy Lennox. According to Sandy, ninety-five per cent of
all fugitives were caught within three days or three miles of the institution they’d escaped from. The ‘rule of three’, he
called it. Bishop found the figure hard to believe, just like he found all statistical data suspect –
who
exactly came up with these numbers? – but
it stayed on his mind. If true, did the other five per cent have as much incentive
to remain at liberty as he did? Less? More?

Probably less, he decided.

As Bishop got onto Richmond to wait for the next bus to St George Ferry Terminal, he thought the very least he could do was
make his pursuers work for their money.

Bishop half watched the game coming to an end from a bench under some maple trees. He sat twenty yards in front of the wire
fence that separated the basketball courts from the kids’ section of the playground.

Only nine thirty and the park in Brooklyn was already filling up. He watched moms walk close behind their kids. Sometimes
with hungover boyfriends or husbands in tow, eyes half shut against the late summer daylight. A few teenage males congregated
around the courts, strutting and shuffling to an imaginary female audience and the hip-hop coming from their bass-heavy stereo.

At six-four, the big white guy on the court should have been a natural but he lacked grace and pace. The
two opposing players
were running rings around him while keeping their distance. But his partner was another matter. He had some moves in him,
but the finishing touch just wasn’t there.

Bishop turned his face up to the sky and closed his eyes as he leaned back against the bench, whistling softly through his
teeth, enjoying the heat. Even the stereo
didn’t annoy him.

‘Who’s winning?’

He opened an eye to look at the profile of the attractive woman who’d just sat down at the other end of the bench.

Mid to late twenties, hardly any make-up, dark green combats and a faded red T-shirt bearing a screen-print of fifties-era
Elvis. She looked ahead at the game and pecked at a Danish out of
a paper bag. She wore a black baseball cap, and a small,
black ponytail protruded from the vent at the back. Her nose was straight and he noticed a slight overbite when she took another
nibble of her breakfast. The fingers holding the pastry were long and elegant and ended in clipped, clear nails.

He took off his sunglasses and said, ‘No idea.’

‘You were watching before I sat down,’ she said.

Bishop nodded in the direction of the court and she glanced at him. ‘It might matter to them,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t much matter
to me.’

‘So you’re waiting for someone.’

Bishop turned, curious. Her eyes were slightly darker than her brown skin, and the whites around the irises made
them seem
doe-like. He liked the way they watched him. Then again, he hadn’t been around women for a while. Even when he had, it was
never for very long.

‘Is that what I’m doing?’

She smiled and took another bite. ‘Put money on it.’

‘Why pick on me?’

‘I’m just talking.’ She turned as a shadow blotted out the sun on
her face.

The pale guy with no pace grinned down at her and said, ‘Hey, beautiful,’ out of one side of his mouth. ‘Stranger bothering
you?’

He had a small towel in his hand and he wiped sweat from his muscular arms. His dirty-blond hair was the kind loved by some
women and the hazel eyes looked intelligent. Insightful, even. He purposely didn’t
look at Bishop.

‘Oh, Lucas,’ she said, still smiling, her tone lowering on the second word. Bishop looked past Lucas and watched the other
three players strolling towards the bench. The two larger men were laughing at something the smallest was saying as he gesticulated
wildly with his hands.

Bishop turned to the woman and said, ‘I preferred
his late sixties stuff, myself.’

She shook her head and smiled. ‘The fifties and Sun Records is where it’s at.’ Another sip. ‘But “In The Ghetto” was pretty
great, I admit.’

Lucas finally looked at Bishop and said, ‘Maybe you’d like to play.’

‘You wouldn’t like me any more than you do now.’ Bishop shrugged. ‘Less, probably.’ Then he said,
‘Don’t forget “Suspicious
Minds”.’

He usually avoided alpha-male bullshit, but couldn’t help himself on this occasion. Something about the guy grated and it
had been a long time since he could say something without having to deal with the threat of being stabbed.

The woman started humming the familiar tune and Bishop listened for five
seconds, enjoying the sound. When Lucas sat down
between them he rose and walked towards the three men. The conversation stopped as soon as he was within five yards. Like
Lucas, all wore
sleeveless sweatshirts or vests, shorts, and sneakers that probably cost more than Bishop’s entire get-up, leather jacket
included. Bishop put them all in the same age bracket as the
woman.

‘Help you?’ asked the smallest guy.

‘Only if your name’s Aleron.’

The speaker turned to the biggest man. ‘Know him?’

The man was about six-two and Bishop guessed about twenty pounds heavier than him. His hair had been shaved close to the skull
and from a distance he looked pretty intimidating. But he had friendly eyes
and he wore a genuine half-smile. He tilted his
head slightly, looking Bishop over. ‘That’s the question. Do I?’

Bishop nodded at him and said, ‘Owen.’

The man raised his eyebrows and took a few steps away from his friends. Bishop followed. ‘That’s the magic word,’ Aleron Falstaff
said. ‘You seen my brother recently?’

‘Three
or four days ago. He gave me your name as someone to see. Told me you played here on Sundays.’ He put his sunglasses
back on and said, ‘My name’s Bishop.’

Aleron showed a flicker of recognition and frowned as he looked over at his friends gathered around the woman on the bench.
‘I heard the last time anyone broke out of Greenacres was twelve years ago. How’d
you end that run?’

‘They carried me out in a box.’ Aleron smiled. ‘Was he on the level or am I wasting my time?’

Aleron flashed some teeth. ‘Wasting time’s what Sunday mornings are for. Relax. I heard what you did for him. Give me a second
and we’ll walk back to my place. It’s not far.’

Aleron left Bishop standing in the bright sun
and walked over to talk briefly with his three co-players. They each knocked
fists with him and he leaned down in front of the girl. She placed an affectionate hand on his shoulder as she listened to
whatever he was saying.

Then she stopped smiling and kept her eyes on Bishop as he followed Aleron towards the park exit.