The Wrong Man

by Jason Dean

  Hooked and cooked. ‘Not much,’ he said. ‘Just a solo performance from Leona as she readied herself for me while she thought I was in the bathroom.’

  ‘Oh, you dirty, dirty dog,’ the guard said. ‘Okay, son. Later.’

  Bishop put down the walkie-talkie and looked over what he’d written. Then he turned the printer on.

  THIRTEEN

  Bishop entered the storeroom. Last time he’d checked, it had been empty except for a forty-watt bulb, three decrepit wheelchairs and a small stepladder. Now different-sized boxes and crates littered the room. The biggest were four flat corrugated cartons about six foot in length stacked together against the left-hand wall. The next biggest were three square wooden crates about four foot by four, placed in the centre of the room. Smaller boxes were spread around them like cubist satellites. He reckoned about forty in all so far. Each one had a sender’s shipping label affixed to its side and another from the courier company, Bearer Logistics, with an address in an industrial area of the Bronx.

  Bishop took the revised inventory sheets from his coat pocket and began checking off the items with a pen. He started with the flat cartons that held new examination tables and had got as far as a batch of rollaway beds when there was a distant sound of a key in a lock. Not wanting to be surprised by Carmody, he stood behind the tall boxes against the wall. The distant squeak of trolley wheels got louder as they made their way across the ward, and when they entered the enclosed space of the hallway Bishop peered round. He saw a diminutive silhouette pushing a stacked hand truck. Just one silhouette, which meant Carmody was probably waiting at the gate leading to the hallway. Perfect.

  Bishop coughed lightly just before the man entered to make his presence known.

  ‘Somebody here?’ the man said in a deep Bronx accent.

  Bishop emerged from his cover and looked up from the checklist. ‘Hey. Dr Brendan Cook. You the courier from Bearer?’

  The man stood about five-six, heavy-built with short, curly black hair thinning at the front. The four large boxes stacked on his hand truck were almost as tall as he was. ‘Cal,’ he said. ‘How ya doin’?’

  Bishop nodded at him. ‘Nearly done, Cal?’

  ‘Already did the really big stuff first. Yeah, one more trip’ll do it, I guess.’ He squared the trolley fork and slid it out from under the boxes. ‘Everything cool so far?’

  ‘So far. I’m about halfway through.’ Bishop turned to the three crates in the middle of the room and pulled Cook’s screwdriver from his pocket. ‘Think I better check inside those big boys while you’re still around, though. Make sure it’s all okay.’

  ‘Good thinking, doc,’ Cal said and mock saluted before turning the cart around and wheeling it back the way he came.

  When he was gone, Bishop used the screwdriver to pry the nails from one of the crates. He pulled the lid off and saw, amongst the pink foam peanuts inside, another corrugated box. Inside this was a brand new blood specimen freezer sheathed in cellophane and bubble wrap. Bishop leaned down and lifted the machine, testing the weight. His stomach area pulsated with fresh pain. For a short journey he’d probably be okay, but for where he wanted to go it was too heavy to carry with his injuries. But not too heavy to push.

  Of the three wheelchairs in the corner of the room, only one had all four wheels. It didn’t have a seat but that was fine. He lifted the freezer and placed it on the wheelchair arms, then slowly pushed his load until he reached the amusingly named equipment room. More a cupboard, really. Unlocking the door, Bishop squeezed the chair past the racks of rusted rollaway beds and deposited it in the corner. Locking the door again, he took the wheelchair back and replaced all the foam that had dropped on the floor.

  Then he began ticking off more items on his list while he waited for Cal.

  ‘You’re screwing with me, right?’ Cal said.

  Bishop shrugged. ‘Wish I was, Cal. I kind of knew when I read the dispatch labels on the side, but I needed to make sure.’

  Cal glared at the three crates. He pulled his own delivery sheets from his back pocket and unfolded them with a frown. ‘But it says three specimen freezers right here.’ He found the last page and showed it to Bishop. ‘Right there, doc.’

  Bishop’s right hand pulled at his ponytail and he said, ‘Sure, but that order was changed two months ago. Look.’ He handed Cal his altered copy as proof. ‘This is a small prison hospital. What would we do with three specimen freezers? We’ve already got one and that’s only five years old. What we need are sterilizers and defibrillators. That’s what I was expecting, not these things. Somebody must have screwed up at head office. They’ll have to go back with you.’

  Cal looked up and shook his head. ‘Shit on toast. I don’t believe this.’

  ‘Me either. Sorry, man.’

  ‘Sure.’ Cal smacked his lips. ‘Everybody’s sorry. Ain’t the first time this has happened and it won’t be the last. I tell ya, doc, the more people order stuff online, the more screw-ups I have to deal with. And it’ll only get worse, too.’

  Bishop nodded. ‘It’s a brave new world, that’s for sure.’

  ‘What can I do?’ Cal sighed and shrugged with his shoulders and eyebrows. ‘They gotta go back, they gotta go back.’

  Bishop pointed at the one opened crate and said, ‘Better bring a hammer back with you to close this one up again. I was careful when I opened it, so all the nails are still in place. I didn’t bother with the other two.’

  ‘That’s something, I guess.’ Cal inserted the trolley fork underneath one of the unopened crates and levered it up.

  ‘I guess that’s it,’ Bishop said. ‘Well, I’ve still got a mountain of paperwork to get back to upstairs, so if I don’t see you again, you drive careful, okay?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ And Cal pushed his load down the hallway without looking back.

  Bishop took the radio from his pocket and said, ‘Bill? Cal’s coming out now with the first of three crates he’s taking back to the depot with him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There are three specimen freezers here we didn’t order. And we’re missing some sterilizers and defibrillators that we did. Lines must have got crossed somewhere along the line.’

  There was a pause. Twenty seconds passed. Bishop heard the distant sound of the gate opening and closing. Had Carmody let Cal out or was he coming in?

  ‘Maybe I should check,’ Carmody said. ‘Warden’ll be pissed if he has to lock down this place again so soon.’

  Bishop heard the last few words in stereo. Carmody had let himself in. He had about fifteen seconds. Probably less. He looked around the room and on the floor next to the opened freezer crate he saw one of the smaller boxes that supposedly contained some forceps. He brought the radio to his lips. ‘Won’t be a problem, Bill. The missing stuff is smaller.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Small enough to mail.’

  Another pause. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah. Don’t worry about it.’

  Bishop listened for the echo of footsteps in the hallway ahead. Another ten seconds and he heard the gate opening once more.

  ‘Whatever you say, doc.’

  Bishop exhaled and looked at Cook’s watch. 04.09. ‘How about we skip the next check-in, Bill? Once I’ve finished up my paperwork I’m gonna try and get an hour’s sleep; I’m about done in. You cool with that?’

  ‘Baby needs his rest, huh?’ Carmody said. ‘Okay. Just don’t forget our movie at six.’

  ‘I’ll bring popcorn,’ Bishop said.

  FOURTEEN

  Bishop opened his eyes as the engine caught. His mind had been so focused on counting he hadn’t even heard the rear door close. The vehicle moved off and was in motion for a couple of minutes before it geared down and came to a halt. Bishop guessed they’d reached the inner perimeter gates, which meant they were close to the outside. He heard and felt a door slam shut – Richards exiting the truck? – then one hundred and fifteen seconds later another slam and they began moving aga
in. The truck then jerked to a stop and Bishop waited for the outer perimeter gates to open.

  For a while, nothing happened. The only sound was the idling engine.

  Then there were voices. Lots of voices. Bishop breathed in.

  Through the insulation of crate and packaging, Bishop counted four guards. Maybe five. The engine stopped, the driver’s door opened and closed and Bishop heard random banging against the trailer. Then he heard metallic sounds under the truck.

  He breathed out. The guards checking for stowaways.

  He’d more or less expected this and knew whatever happened next was out of his hands. No point in worrying himself more than necessary. Especially over things he couldn’t control. He’d learned that little lesson on his tenth birthday and had never forgotten it.

  Then he heard the rear door roll up. Somebody coughing. Footsteps approaching. Then more footsteps. Finally the muffled, creaking sound of wood as it was forced apart.

  They were checking the crates too. The final inspection.

  He heard Cal’s heavy Bronx accent. ‘You gonna check each one?’ But whatever the response was, it wasn’t verbal.

  Bishop just sat and listened to the creaks. Slowly breathing in, and then out. He began to count again.

  After two minutes, both sets of footsteps finally moved away. Bishop heard the rear door crash down, followed by the sound of a key in a lock. A random check. That’s all. He breathed out.

  The truck was put into gear and they began moving again. When he heard the faint clunk of a steel gate closing behind them, he smiled in the darkness. They were out.

  He pressed a button on the watch and when its light showed him it was 04.33 his smile became a grin. No one had made it out of Greenacres for over a decade, which made Bishop’s achievement that much sweeter. That was the kind of record he liked to beat.

  As the truck bounced along the road, he manoeuvred himself until he could reach back into his coat pocket and pull out the screwdriver. As he pushed open the box flaps and worked the screwdriver into a corner crack between lid and crate, he actually chuckled. Been a while since that happened, and it felt pretty good. He wasn’t out of the woods yet, but he could sure taste new scents in the air. A freshness that had been lacking on the inside.

  When he emerged from the crate, Bishop pressed the watch light again. The steel trailer was about twenty-five feet long and empty apart from the three crates and him. Steadying himself against the motion of the truck, he shone the watch face towards the rear rolling door.

  It was the only way in. Which meant it was the only way out. There were no release mechanisms on this side and although the door moved in its bracket, it only lifted half an inch. Not enough for a child to get through, let alone a grown man. Bishop kneeled down, got his fingers under it and lifted. Through the small gap he saw a thick padlock. It was attached to a chain that disappeared towards the truck’s undercarriage.

  Good thing he’d come prepared.

  Leaning against the back of the rolling door, he took the choker from his coat pocket and placed it on the floor. He removed the ruined Buddha and put it in his pants pocket, telling himself it couldn’t affect his luck as he didn’t believe in it. Not unless it was the kind you made yourself. He then took the screwdriver and used the sharp flathead to pierce the choker’s soft, black rubber skin. When he’d made an incision along the length of the cord, he pulled it apart.

  Inside were two lengths of thin, rough-looking metallic strands. Falstaff hadn’t let Bishop down. Somehow he’d gotten his hands on the stuff they used for commercial wire saws: two foot-long pieces of .025-inch diamond-impregnated ‘angel wire’ that, given enough time, could cut through just about anything.

  Like chains.

  Ignoring the pain now pounding in his abdomen like a jack rabbit, Bishop went over to his box, ripped off two flaps of thick cardboard and folded them roughly. Then, using his right hand, he lifted the rolling door up again and pushed the folded pieces into the gap to make a wedge.

  He picked up a length of wire and poked one end through the gap. It took several attempts before it reappeared on the other side of the chain. He reached under the door and grabbed it with his other hand.

  He checked the watch again. 04.42.

  Keeping the wire ends in place with his right knee, he shrugged off the white coat and ripped off the arms. Then he wrapped the cloth firmly around each hand and picked up the angel wire.

  As he pulled hard with his left hand he heard the satisfying grinding sound of sawn steel. He got the same sound when he pulled with his right. He blanked his body’s pain from his mind and focused on the steady routine. Left. Right. Left. Right. One second per movement.

  Bishop cut through the chain thirty-six minutes later. He was getting close to real freedom now. But it was when you were close to the finish line that you needed to stay the most focused.

  He dropped the wire, got his fingers under the shutter and raised it up a foot. The crisp night air felt great against his skin. It was still pitch black outside. They were travelling on a six-lane highway, Bishop guessed the I-87, and heading south amongst the sparse, early morning Sunday traffic. The closest headlights were about half a mile back. Two minutes later he saw a sign above the northbound lanes: exit 16, Harriman.

  Bishop calculated the time he had left. By 06.05 they’d know something was wrong, if Carmody hadn’t figured it out already. Then there would be a search of the hospital and they’d find Cook. Next, a call to the warden. Another one to alert the local law and the state troopers. By 6.30, the US Marshals would have entered the fray. He figured Cal would have reached the Bronx by seven, but Bishop had no intention of still being on the truck by then.

  FIFTEEN

  At 08.12, the Staten Island bus dawdled along Richmond Avenue like it had all the time in the world. It paused briefly for traffic at the Katan Avenue intersection before moving forward again. Bishop sat staring out the window. He studied the five-year-old grey Plymouth parked on Katan, two houses down from No. 88. No white stripes on the radials, which kind of gave the game away if you knew what that signified, and he could make out two figures inside. The one in the passenger seat gesticulated while the other sipped from a thermos cup. For undercover cops, they could have been subtler.

  Bishop sat back, enjoying the gentle vibration of the engine and the musty, high school smell of the seats. The bus continued down Richmond before stopping briefly to deposit a mother and child, but Bishop had decided to wait for the next stop. Five blocks was only a short walk and he’d be coming in from behind the Plymouth.

  Cal had eventually pulled into a service area at 05.35. Bishop had waited for him to park up in the truck section and enter the twenty-four-hour McDonald’s next to the forecourt before climbing out. Leaving behind Brendan’s coat, screwdriver and walkie-talkie he’d secured the rear door as best he could and then casually strolled over to the gas station itself. A few minutes later he reappeared, carrying a bag containing a tan baseball cap, a pair of cheap, lightly tinted sunglasses, a box of Advil, a can of shaving foam, a disposable razor and a copy of yesterday’s New York Times. The young clerk hadn’t looked at his face the entire time he was in there.

  After cleaning himself up in the restrooms out back, he waited in the grey cubicle for twenty minutes and when he glanced outside Cal’s truck was gone.

  Fresh-shaven and bespectacled with his long hair hidden under the cap, Bishop entered the fast food franchise and came out at 06.07 alongside a long-distance trucker named Ed Chambers. Ed was a bluff, easygoing guy who after listening to Bishop’s story of a marital bust-up that ended with him minus a vehicle had patted him on the back and said he’d take him as far as Brooklyn for fifty bucks.

  He’d belly-laughed for most of the journey, telling tales of bad women he’d known from a life spent on the road. He finally let Bishop off a couple of blocks from a bus stop at 07.24, where Bishop made use of Cook’s change and took the number seventy-nine over the Verrazano Bridge into
Staten Island, and from there to Annadale.

  Turning from the window, he checked the watch again. 08.13. Right now, Marshals would be contacting every person with whom he’d had contact, all the way back to his time in the Corps. Building up a complete dossier on him. Where he hung out before prison, who he socialized with, his habits, his tastes, right down to his favourite food and music. Anything that could be used to predict his next move. They’d find the lease on his old apartment in Queens expired long ago, so that was a dead end. But Amy’s place in Manhattan was guaranteed to be under heavy surveillance, although he had no plans to contact his sister or her family any time soon.

  Or anybody else from his past, for that matter. He knew two men on the east coast who’d put up their old sergeant if asked, but as tempting as it was to contact them, he also knew it would be the worst move he could make. He might as well leave breadcrumbs for the cops to follow. To last any length of time after a prison escape you had to be unpredictable and the first rule, the prime rule, was to stay clear of known associates. But that was okay. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to operate in the cold. Back in the day, he’d occasionally been forced to work solo in places like Somalia, Kuwait and Haiti, and this wasn’t much different. At least he could speak the language fluently this time. Besides, he still had one lead up his sleeve.

  The next stop came into view and Bishop got up and pressed the red buzzer. When the doors opened, he got out and began making his way back towards Katan. Traffic was minimal. The sun had already begun to heat the city and a faint September breeze blew against his face as he walked. Today would be a hot one.

  He crossed over Richmond and turned right into Figurea, the street before Katan. He stopped at the corner to tie his shoelaces and checked for more suspicious vehicles, but the traffic was almost non-existent. The only parked vehicles were empty ones. He spotted the bright red tracksuit of a jogger in his late fifties approaching and lowered his head so the visor of his baseball cap hid his face. Another man walked his dog on the opposite side of the street, totally uninterested in the world around him.