by Jason Dean
Bishop walked on. This area was still fairly affluent, mostly populated by young or middle-aged couples seeking a little greenery and easy access to the city. Coming up on his left was the Robinsons’ place. It looked like all the other detached houses on the street. Two floors. Redbrick. Veranda out front. The empty driveway told him they were still making regular weekend visits to their place on Long Island.
Bishop strolled across their front lawn and down the driveway at the side, opened the latch on the wooden gate at the end and passed through. He guessed the crime rate around here was still low, which made people careless. He figured that of all the houses on the street about seventy-five per cent would have their side gates unlocked. The Robinsons were no doubt happily unaware of this ratio.
Aside from a recently built patio, their backyard hadn’t changed much. Still the same plot of grass with the same seven-foot-tall wooden fencing all around, separated by concrete posts at six-foot intervals. And the same apple tree in the far right-hand corner. It had provided enough cover when he was a kid, it should be good enough now. The houses on either side partly overlooked the garden and the one backing onto it, but unless somebody was actually looking out a second-floor window right now he would be safe.
He walked over to the small tree and placed both hands atop the fence and pulled himself up. Grimacing in pain, he brought his right leg over, then his left, and dropped to the ground on the other side with a soft grunt.
The backyard of No. 88 was in bad shape. The grass had grown knee-high and turned brown under the summer sun. A shovel, a rake and his old bicycle all lay rusting against the fence.
How much of a mistake he’d made in coming here depended on how much Amy had told the cops about this place. Knowing his sister, probably as close to nothing as she could get away with. But then Amy always took his side, no matter what. She’d never even asked if he was innocent three years ago. She just knew.
After their parents’ deaths twenty-six years ago, this house had passed down to both of them, the deeds held in trust until they both reached twenty-one. Tom and Annabel, grandparents on their father’s side, had moved in to act as legal guardians and had stayed on even after Bishop left for the Marines at seventeen. But once they too passed away – Annabel nine years ago and Tom a year after – Amy told him she had no emotional attachment to the place and would sign it over to him if he wanted. Instead, Bishop asked her to place it in her name for as long as he remained in a high risk profession, if only for simplicity’s sake. He’d take sole ownership himself once he felt the time was right. After much debate, Amy finally agreed.
Today was where it might pay off in his favour. Had his name been on the paperwork the cops would have assigned an army to watch over it. The fact that two locals were deemed enough suggested they were merely covering bases. That’s what he was hoping, anyway.
SIXTEEN
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 h
eld 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.
SEVENTEEN
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.
EIGHTEEN
‘One more for luck,’ Aleron said.
Bishop looked straight at a reflex camera that was attached to a tripod in Aleron’s basement. He kept his expression neutral. Not happy, not angry, just eyes open, mouth closed.
After the shutter clicked, Aleron opened the side of the camera and extracted a small memory card. He went over and reached under the desk to turn something on before inserting the card into his Power Mac. Laid-back music started playing and Bishop immediately recognized Joe Zawinul on keyboards and John McLaughlin’s delicate guitar. It was one of his favourite pieces of music and it felt good hearing it out loud again. He couldn’t see any speakers and figured they must have been hidden somewhere. Maybe in the walls. Three years out of the world and the miracles of technology had already left him behind.