by Jason Dean
‘I’m the curious type. So what’s the deal with you people? You dealing in black market organ transplants or something? If so, what’s Tatem doing in there? Or is he just a cover for what’s really going on?’
‘You just got a head full of questions, don’t you?’ Abraham said, yawning. ‘Let’s just say we’re a small, highly specialized organization filling a gap in the market and leave it at that.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning we know exactly what we’re doing, and assholes like you get taken care of before you become a problem. Right now, you’re just an itch that needs scratching.’
‘Like Hewitt and Rutherford.’
‘Right.’
‘And Samantha Mathison.’
There was a pause. Then Abraham said, ‘What do you know about her?’
Bishop stopped and leaned on the shovel. ‘Everything.’
Abraham narrowed his eyes. Then he smiled. ‘No, you don’t. But it doesn’t matter. She’s no longer a problem. And less than thirty-six hours from now, your little bitch will be out of the equation, too.’
‘You mean you’re gonna kill her once she’s of no further use to you?’
Abraham raised the gun. ‘You’re not digging.’
Bishop turned and resumed work. Today was Saturday. Which meant he now had until Sunday evening to find Selina. Added to which, he also had the little problem of escaping his current situation. But then, life was never easy.
‘What’s gonna happen to her?’ he asked.
‘Forget about the woman. She’s not your problem any more. Once a couple more details are taken care of, she’ll just be another footnote. Like you.’
Bishop plunged the shovel into the dirt with more force than he’d planned. Without thinking, he tried pulling it out, but the blade was stuck fast in the hard soil and began to come free of the shaft.
Shit. Too soon. It’s too soon.
He’d hoped to extract more details from Abraham, but that was no longer possible. In less time than it took to blink, his instincts told him to make the best of his circumstances and go through with his performance as he’d planned. So he tried pulling the shovel out and pretended to lose his footing. He made himself fall, stepping hard on one end of the shovel with his whole body weight behind it, catching the shaft about a foot from the blade. The old wood snapped in two uneven halves, leaving a sharp, jagged edge at each end.
He landed on his ass, still holding on to the longer end. ‘Shit,’ he said.
Abraham let out a bark of laughter behind him. Bishop saw the blade and part of the shaft were sticking out of the ground at an angle. Still connected to each other. That was good. If the blade had come free, Abraham would have simply told him to affix it to the longer shaft piece and carry on as before.
‘Get me another shovel,’ Bishop said. ‘This one’s history.’
‘You’ll have to use your hands, then.’
‘Uh, uh. Find me something else to use or do it yourself. You can ruin your nice suit.’ He turned to look at Abraham, who was still smiling. Bishop jutted his chin at the shack twenty yards away and said, ‘Get me one of those broken floorboards in there or something.’
Abraham thought for a moment, then said, ‘You go and pick one out yourself. I’ll be right behind you.’
Excellent. Bishop got to his feet, still holding the longer staff piece in his left hand, and walked back to the shack. He aimed for the weeds where he’d seen that group of rocks, rotating the staff between his fingers. Testing the feel of it. It was just over thirty inches long. It felt heavy enough for throwing, but wasn’t nearly long enough. An effective spear needed be two or three feet longer than the height of the man throwing it. And always with a spearhead attached. Even the earliest Neanderthals knew enough to tie primitive flints to the ends.
All Bishop had was a sharp stick. Next to the rock, the most basic weapon of all. But you could only use what was at hand. And he’d been in worse positions with a lot less. It would have to do, that’s all.
As they got closer to the shack, Bishop saw the rocks about three feet away. Time to exploit his newfound reputation for being accident prone.
It almost felt as though he were moving in slow motion. His right foot came into contact with the first rock and he grunted as he ‘tripped’. In the half-second it took to fall, Bishop rotated his upper body clockwise so he was turned towards Abraham. At the same time, he brought the left hand back ready to throw, right arm extended for balance. He could see Abraham standing there four or five feet away. He was watching Bishop with a small smile on his lips, gun still pointing at the ground. It hadn’t sunk in yet.
The moment Bishop’s right knee hit the ground, it did.
Abraham’s smile disappeared and he began raising the gun, while Bishop extended his left leg on the ground to keep him steady.
Then he threw the spear straight at Abraham’s chest.
FIFTY-FOUR
Bishop knew his aim was off the moment it left his hand. Not much, but enough. But he didn’t have time for perfection. He was up against a gun, and speed of movement counted for more than pinpoint accuracy.
Bishop immediately dived to the right. He heard a grunt and a gunshot as he rolled his body along the ground, out of the line of fire. There was another gunshot and he felt soil stinging against his cheek. He kept rolling, rolling. Once he lost momentum, he quickly got his legs under him, jumped to his feet and sprinted towards Abraham, ten feet away.
The bigger man had his free hand pressed against his upper thigh. Bishop must have scored a hit. But he was already bringing his gun round to bear on Bishop again.
Bishop darted to the left and kept running as Abraham fired off another shot. It went wide. By a couple of inches at most. But he’d halved the distance. He was almost on him.
Bishop loved soccer. A loyal New York Bulls fan, he went to see them play whenever he could. Especially as they currently had a young defender who’d barely made a bad tackle all season. He was amazing. He always got the ball, never the player. Bishop just knew his brain could process the ball’s movement faster than anybody else. And with mathematical precision. He always knew where the ball was going to be. So that’s where he would be.
Bishop’s brain worked the same way. When he saw the gun moving back in his direction, he’d already narrowed the distance to three feet. He landed on his left foot, lowered his left shoulder and kicked his right foot at the place where the gun was going to be. Or more specifically, where the hand holding the gun was going to be.
The tip of Bishop’s shoe struck Abraham’s wrist so hard he felt sure he must have fractured something. The impact pushed the arm all the way back and the Sig flew from Abraham’s grasp, landing somewhere in the brittlebush. He didn’t see where.
Bishop followed through with the kick, swivelling his body round so he was facing away from Abraham. Still moving, he swung round again, this time leading with the point of his left elbow. Aiming for Abraham’s left ear. It struck him on the side of the jaw instead.
Abraham fell backwards and landed on his side. Bishop stepped forward and raised his foot high before bringing it down where Abraham’s head was. The big man saw it coming and got out of the way just in time. Bishop kept his balance and turned to see Abraham already rising to his feet, facing him from just a few feet away. He’d forgotten how fast the guy was. And the guy’s wrist didn’t seem broken like he’d hoped. Pity.
But both men were now unarmed. For Bishop, that was enough.
‘It’s better this way, asshole,’ Abraham said. He seemed barely out of breath. ‘A bullet would have been too quick, and I want you to suffer.’
Bishop glanced at the guy’s left thigh and saw blood seeping through a ragged hole in his pants. ‘You’re leaking.’
As Abraham instinctively glanced down, Bishop turned side-on to him and delivered a sliding side-kick towards Abraham’s left thigh. His heel connected with bone. Abraham grunted and jumped back a couple of feet as Bishop br
ought his leg back down.
‘Leaking even more now.’ Bishop looked around for the spear or the gun, but couldn’t see them anywhere. He refocused his attention on Abraham, who was holding his wound and glaring at Bishop. If Bishop couldn’t finish the bastard fast, he at least needed to wear him down. And he liked the way that thigh was looking. Bleeding nicely. Right now it was a chink in Abraham’s armour. One worth exploiting to the full.
Bishop adopted a street-fighting stance. Left side facing Abraham. Feet planted shoulder width apart. Guard up. Ready. He’d already drawn first blood. And second. Time for Abraham to take the initiative. Bishop wanted to see what he had in him.
Without warning, Abraham suddenly lunged forward, swinging his right fist in a roundhouse strike. Bishop ducked his head, avoiding the punch with an inch to spare, and jabbed with his left towards the man’s wounded thigh as he barrelled past. His knuckles made contact against muscle and bone again. His fist was covered in the man’s blood. Beautiful.
Then he felt a sharp, hard blow at the base of his spine. Abraham must have got an elbow in as he passed. The pain was tremendous. Bishop went down and quickly rolled away from the danger area, then jumped to his feet and faced his opponent.
Abraham advanced again with both fists raised. Limping a little. And panting. He grinned and said, ‘Got a good one in, didn’t I, asshole? That’s just a taster. I’m gonna break every bone in your body, then leave you breathing while the buzzards feed on your guts.’
Bishop said nothing. He was done talking. Let Abraham waste his breath if he wanted. He glanced at the man’s thigh and saw blood pouring down his pants. Bishop brought his left fist back. Abraham was watching him and moved his body sideways to avoid the blow. At the last moment, Bishop swivelled on his axis, ducked inside and slammed the edge of his right elbow into the man’s face instead. Just under the right eye. Abraham took a step back at the impact and Bishop followed through with a simple front kick, the heel bone of his foot striking the wounded thigh again.
The big man roared, lowered his head and simply launched himself at Bishop like a freight train. Before Bishop could get out of the way, Abraham’s skull slammed into his chest. His breath left his body in a single burst and then he was falling backwards with Abraham’s arms wrapped round him.
They fell to the ground and Bishop slammed his right knee twice against Abraham’s wound. The man’s grip loosened and Bishop rolled away, one arm around his chest. He got to his feet and saw Abraham still on the ground holding his thigh, blood seeping through his fingers. Bishop ran over and raised his foot again to stamp on his face. But with lightning speed, Abraham reached up, grabbed Bishop’s foot and twisted it.
Bishop came crashing down on his stomach. He immediately hit out with his free foot and felt it connect with Abraham’s face. His other foot came free of Abraham’s grip, and as he raised himself up Bishop finally spotted the improvised spear. It was lying a few feet away, partially hidden by some weeds. He got up, ran over and grabbed it, and was just turning when Abraham’s powerful body slammed into him again. Bishop lost his grip on the weapon and fell onto his back with Abraham on top of him. Then Abraham rammed a knee into his stomach and Bishop doubled up in pain.
He fell back, winded, then felt Abraham’s hands round his neck, squeezing. With his left hand, Bishop punched upwards towards Abraham’s throat. But he dodged in time and Bishop hit nothing but air. Then the pressure against his neck decreased as Abraham’s fingers moved upwards, towards his face.
Bishop knew he didn’t have long. Abraham was going for his eyes. He could already feel the man’s thumbs on his cheeks, just inches away from his eye sockets. His left hand grabbed at Abraham’s fingers to try to slow their progress. His right scrabbled around in the dirt, desperately searching for the spear he’d dropped.
It has to be close by. Has to be. If it wasn’t, he was dead. Blind first, then dead.
His fingers kept groping around until, at last, they touched the jagged edge of the wooden staff. He moved his hand down its length and stopped when he reached halfway. Abraham’s thumbs were at his eyes now. He clamped them shut and felt the thumbs begin to push down. He turned his head to delay the inevitable for a second and grasped the spear tight in his fist. Then he swung it upwards in an arc towards Abraham’s head. He felt it make contact with something and held it there for a second before pulling it away.
The pressure against Bishop’s eyeballs immediately disappeared and he felt a hot spray against his arm. He looked up, and with blurred vision saw a stream of blood pouring from Abraham’s neck. Abraham had a hand pressed hard against it, trying to stem the flow.
Nice shot, Bishop thought. Must have hit the jugular.
He pushed Abraham off him. It didn’t require much effort. Abraham simply toppled over and landed on his back, his mouth making gurgling sounds. Blood pumped out of his neck as though it was in a race to leave his body, turning the soil around his head black.
Bishop got to his feet, pressing a hand against his chest. At least his ribs didn’t feel cracked. He looked down at the killer at his feet. Abraham stared back without expression, hand still clamped against the fatal wound. His eyes were already glazing over. Bishop just stood there and watched as the life slowly left his body. The image reminded him of Jean-Robert Develaux’s last few seconds on this earth, half a world and a lifetime away. He and Abraham had been similar in a lot of ways. Both had enjoyed preying on women, and both had ended their odious, useless lives in pretty much the same manner. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer pair. Assholes, the both of them.
A minute later, Bishop checked Abraham’s body for a pulse and found nothing.
Walking back to the grave he’d started on, Bishop pulled the loosened shovel blade from the shaft and affixed it to his piece of the handle. Then he carried on digging.
FIFTY-FIVE
By the time Bishop reached the Lexus, the fading sun was turning the western horizon orange. He was hot, tired and covered in another man’s blood. But at least he was breathing, unlike those two he’d just buried. Or in the case of the second body, reburied.
Bishop left his stuff on the passenger seat and went back and popped the trunk. As he’d hoped, Abraham kept a five-gallon plastic jug of water in there in case of breakdowns. He removed his bloodstained shirt and threw it on the ground. Maybe in future he’d be better off wearing darker colours. But at least his T-shirt was still presentable. He took that off, too, and then used some of the water to wash the blood off himself.
Once he’d done the best he could, he dried himself off, then doused the ruined shirt in gas from the tank. He used the car’s cigarette lighter to set it alight and watched it burn. He didn’t want his DNA anywhere around here. Then he donned his T-shirt and got in the driver’s seat. He looked down at the items on the other seat. He picked up the Sig first and checked the magazine. It held sixteen rounds. He made sure one was in the chamber before placing it in the glove compartment with the .38. He’d hold on to both weapons. Neither could be traced to him, and he had a feeling they’d come in useful fairly soon.
Bishop picked up Abraham’s cell phone. It was one of those fancy iPhone jobs and looked fairly new. The screen was taken up by a large chrome version of the Apple logo with a sliding lock at the bottom. Bishop used a finger to slide it to the right. A menu screen came up with row after row of application icons. He scrolled along until he found the one for ‘Contacts’ and opened it up.
There were no entries. None at all. Frowning, he scrolled all the way down, wondering if he was doing something wrong. He wasn’t too experienced in using these touchscreen gizmos. But there was clearly nothing in the folder.
Still, there should still be some kind of call log. He tried ‘Recents’. And again, all he got was another blank screen. Which indicated that whatever qualities Abraham had lacked, vigilance wasn’t one of them. Probably wiped the phone’s history after each and every call.
Wonderful.
He pocketed t
he phone. It could still come in useful. Especially since Bishop was the only person who knew Abraham was dead. Sooner or later he’d get a call from somebody wondering where he’d got to. Possibly Abraham’s boss.
Finally, he picked up Abraham’s leather wallet. It was slim and expensive-looking. Inside, all the credit card slots were empty, but there was a driver’s licence in the ID window. The face in the photo was no prettier. And his first name had been Arjen, which at least explained why he’d preferred using his surname. The address was an apartment in Phoenix. Bishop doubted it was anything more than a billing address.
There were also eight hundred-dollar bills, three fifties, two tens and five singles in the rear pocket. Bishop pocketed the money and the licence, then wiped his prints off the empty wallet and dropped it out the window.
He sat back and tapped his head against the seat rest. He was thinking back to something Abraham had said. Once a couple more details are taken care of, she’ll just be another footnote.
Bishop didn’t like the sound of that. So far, if Samantha’s situation was any kind of gauge, the way these people operated was to kidnap the victim while offing the nearest relatives. Presumably, so there’d be nobody to get suspicious and chase things up. And while there was no reason for Bishop to think they’d seen through the Selina Clements alias, something at the base of his spine told him to check anyway.
Bishop took the iPhone from his pocket and keyed in Michelle Gardiner’s landline number. And waited. And waited. After fifteen rings, there was no response. It didn’t have to mean anything. She could be out shopping for groceries. She could be out doing anything at all. He tried her cell phone number. This time he kept it going for twenty rings before hanging up.
She would have taken her cell with her if she’d gone out. She wasn’t stupid. She’d be expecting Bishop to call her at some point with an update on her daughter. And while it was far too early to jump to conclusions, he was still getting one of his bad feelings again.