The Outsider (James Bishop 4)

by Dean, Jason

‘I was just terrified of what might happen if I screwed up. So I did what you wanted. Now what happens?’

  ‘Now take us back to your place.’

  Clea let out another groan. ‘God, I was afraid you were going to say that.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  Wellerby was situated about five or six miles south of Cramer and barely qualified as a town. There was a post office and a diner and a bar on the main road, and Bishop also spotted road signs for a local school and library nearby, but every other building off the main strip seemed to be residential. Once Clea turned off into a side street the gaps between the few visible houses and ranches gradually became larger, and the streetlights became fewer. There were also no road markings and no sidewalks.

  Gentle suburbia in the high country.

  It was ten past six and already getting a lot darker and a lot colder. Night fell fast around these parts, probably due to the high altitude. Once the streetlights thinned out to nothing they had to rely on the Explorer’s headlights to see where they were going. Clea finally turned into a narrow tree-lined street and they passed three more houses on the left side, all set well back from the road, before stopping outside a garage next to a single-storey stucco house at the end. The house looked fairly new and had a neat front porch. In the large front yard, a thick copse of evergreens obscured the view of her nearest neighbour a hundred feet away. There were no houses opposite.

  ‘Pretty isolated around here,’ Bishop said.

  Clea killed the engine. ‘That was one of the main reasons we originally bought this place. I’m already regretting it.’

  ‘Don’t. We’ll be out of your life soon and you’ll be no worse for wear.’

  ‘I really wish I could believe you.’

  ‘Hey, get me out of here,’ Strickland said from the rear. ‘I feel like I’m suffocating.’

  ‘Christ, my back’s killing me,’ Strickland said, stretching, after Bishop had helped him out. ‘Next time you get to go in the back.’

  ‘Sure. Next time.’

  Bishop motioned for Clea to go first and both men followed her over to the front porch. He still felt bad about this whole situation, but with the cops closing in he’d been out of other options. Hopefully, they could soon retreat from this poor woman’s life with the same ease with which they’d entered it.

  As she inserted the key into the lock, he said, ‘You keep any guns on the property?’

  She paused. ‘There’s an old shotgun in the basement, but it’s not loaded. It’s probably rusted by now.’

  ‘Just that? Nothing else?’

  Clea opened the door. ‘Nothing else. I don’t like guns.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Bishop said, and followed her into the house.

  She turned on the lights and led them down a long hallway with doors on either side, along with some framed photos on the walls. Some were prints, but there were also a couple of shots of Clea posing with a little girl, who had to be her daughter, Lucy. She looked a little younger than Barney, but Bishop had no idea when the photos had been taken. The click-clack of their shoes on the hardwood floor echoed throughout the house until they finally entered a large kitchen and dining area at the end. Bishop noticed the room was as neat and tidy as the vehicle they’d just left.

  Bishop spotted the large refrigerator against one wall and said, ‘How are you stocked for food? We haven’t eaten anything solid in a while.’

  ‘I’ve got some T-bone steaks in the freezer,’ Clea said. ‘And some eggs, I think. And there are some canned vegetables in the cupboard. So should I now consider myself your prisoner?’

  Bishop took a seat at the table and brushed his hand over his head. ‘If you want. But we’re not here to hurt you so put that out of your mind. All we need is a place to lay low while I think through our next step.’

  Strickland said, ‘We’ve sure had a day of it, all right. And it isn’t going to get better anytime soon.’

  ‘And how long are you planning on staying here?’ Clea asked.

  ‘An hour or so,’ Bishop said, ‘no longer. We really need to keep moving.’

  ‘In my Explorer.’

  ‘Afraid so. Unless you got another vehicle stashed away in the garage.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Got any atlases or maps in the house?’

  ‘Yes, I have a few in the garage.’

  ‘Good, I’ll need those. And do you have a satellite dish?’

  She frowned. ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Because I want to check the news.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The three of them watched the TV in the large living room at the front of the house. As expected, the massacre in Vegas was the hot story on all the major news channels. Bishop finally decided to stick with CNN, but it didn’t make any difference. They were all showing pretty much the same thing anyway.

  For example, film of the destroyed house on Gulliver was almost always used as a backdrop while the studio anchors attempted to give their own spin on what had happened. The footage was obviously taken not long after the incident, with police barriers already set up and plain-clothes detectives, uniforms, and crime scene technicians moving around the devastation, taking photos and marking evidence.

  As for the story itself, there was plenty of conjecture and not much in the way of real facts, but one thing everybody seemed to agree on was that it had been a witness safe house, since the dead were all federal marshals. Clearly, nobody from the USMS was going to confirm any of that yet, but they didn’t need to. Three residents – one male, two female – living directly across the street each gave interviews saying that they’d overheard one of the first uniforms on the scene comment to his partner that all the dead bodies inside had federal marshal identification. The media simply worked out the rest for themselves.

  And the body count was six, not seven. The same male eyewitness from before said he’d seen just one victim being loaded onto the first ambulance with an oxygen mask over his face, and that he’d been missing part of his left ear. Another reporter had found out where he’d been taken and somehow confirmed that the unnamed victim had lost a lot of blood and was still unconscious, but that there was a half-decent chance he’d pull through.

  The ear part was enough for Bishop, though. The survivor was Frank Lomax. It had to be him.

  After that, they moved onto the subject of the SUV speeding away from the scene, which had everybody buzzing with all kinds of theories. This was accompanied by the damning photo Clea had mentioned and, of course, it was the one taken by that jogger on his cell, which he’d immediately posted on his Twitter account for the whole world to see.

  It showed both doors on the driver’s side, each one riddled with bullets, along with a three-quarter view of Bishop’s face as he was turning away from the camera. It was far from a perfect likeness, but anybody who knew Bishop would know straight away it was him. Strickland could also be seen clearly in the back as he said something to Bishop, but it was a profile shot so it wasn’t quite as obvious. And behind Strickland was the silhouette of a boy who could have been anyone. That was something to be grateful for, at least.

  It got worse, though. Much worse.

  The jogger, whose name was Amos Martin, was actually interviewed on camera, still wearing the same red tracksuit, and he said, ‘Just before I took the shot, the driver lowered his window and I could hear the guy in the back saying, “Just let us out of here,” or something like that and the driver tossed this GPS tracker out of the window and said, “Forget it, there’s no way I’m letting you go,” then he saw me and just sped off like a bat out of hell. But it was obvious to me that he was holding the guy and the kid against their will, man. I mean, you can see clear as day that those two in the back have been cuffed. It was only later on I found out about the shootout a few blocks away and put two and two together.’

  It wasn’t quite clear as day, but Bishop could see how anybody might get the wrong idea. In the photo Strickland was leaning forward with his arms down at
his side and his hands out of shot, and Barney was in a similar position. And the dialogue Martin had spouted wasn’t a million miles away from what had been said, but taken out of context it could easily be conceived as meaning something entirely different, which was clearly the case here.

  The channel also broadcast footage of the bullet-ridden SUV on Route 91, along with the overturned patrol car, both vehicles surrounded by numerous law enforcement officials. Naturally, one of the local crime reporters had been listening in on the police scanner at the time and said he heard one of the murdered state troopers saying they’d just apprehended two men and a boy and were bringing them into headquarters. That was the last anybody had heard of them until they discovered the two dead bodies.

  An assistant sheriff from the Las Vegas Police Department also gave a statement saying it seemed likely, thanks to Martin’s account, that the driver of the SUV was connected to the team that hit the house and he confirmed a nationwide manhunt was currently in progress, with every law enforcement agency in the country now on the lookout for the two men in the photo, along with the unidentified child. Citizens were also advised to stay alert and to call in straight away if they saw either of the men in the photo.

  From bad to worse, Bishop thought.

  On the plus side, it seemed unlikely that the feds would ever give out Strickland’s or Barney’s identities, not to the cops and definitely not to the media. But Bishop knew it was just a matter of time before somebody put a name to the face of the driver, and things were certain to go downhill from there.

  CNN also showed a brief clip of Deputy Director Lawrence Whitaker of the US Marshals Service. Whitaker, a distinguished-looking fifty-something with hollow cheeks, thinning grey hair and piercing blue eyes, was carrying a briefcase and trying to make his way down the steps of a federal building in DC to his car, but his progress was being hampered by a small army of reporters and cameramen blocking his way.

  One reporter called out, ‘Sir, sir, can you confirm that the murder house in Las Vegas was being used to shelter a high-profile witness?’

  ‘No comment,’ Whitaker said, trying to get through.

  ‘But surely you can confirm that the six murder victims at the house were federal marshals, as has since been verified by independent witnesses?’

  ‘Again, no comment.’

  Another reporter said, ‘Isn’t it true that the same man who took off with the alleged witness and an unidentified boy is also the same man wanted for the murders of those two state troopers on Route 91 this morning?’

  Whitaker said, ‘I have no comment to make on that.’

  ‘From the information we’ve uncovered so far,’ the same reporter said, ‘it seems possible that a third party may also have been involved in the state troopers’ murders. And if that’s the case, it’s possible that the SUV driver was working hand in hand with them, isn’t it? That they killed the troopers in order to rescue him?’

  ‘I still have no comment to make,’ Whitaker said. ‘And you should really be talking to the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police about this anyway.’

  A female reporter said, ‘Sir, isn’t it feasible that this driver is merely trying to protect this alleged witness, and that he has no connection to the assailants at all?’

  Whitaker finally reached his car at kerbside, opened the rear door and said, ‘How many times do I have to say it? No comment. Now I’m late for an urgent appointment, people, so if you’ll excuse me …’ He got in the back, slammed the door shut and the driver of the car pulled away from the kerb.

  Bishop could see the station was getting pretty desperate now. He pressed a button on the remote and the TV screen went black. He’d heard and seen enough anyway.

  ‘Great,’ Strickland said, staring up at the ceiling. ‘That’s just great. So now we got the whole world out looking for us.’

  Bishop remained silent.

  Clea was watching the two men from her chair, no doubt trying to digest everything she’d seen so far. Finally, she said, ‘So did you have anything to do with the deaths of those two state troopers?’

  ‘Well, we were there when it happened if that’s what you mean,’ Strickland said. ‘Two goons came up alongside us and – BOOM BOOM – took ’em both out like it was nothing. Almost took us out too.’

  ‘So why haven’t you turned yourselves in? Has it got something to do with that boy in the photo not being with you?’

  ‘It’s got everything to do with that, lady,’ Strickland said. ‘See, that boy is my son, Barney, and during the firefight those two men managed to grab him and take off. One hour later we got a call saying he’s on his way to Columbus, Ohio, and the only way we can get him back alive is to be there before dawn on Thursday and make a trade. Me for him. And if the cops grab us at any point, the deal’s off and Barn’s dead.’

  Bishop let the talk wash over him. He was thinking over what he’d heard on the TV and what he hadn’t. Although little mention had been made of the sole survivor other than his current condition, Bishop had to assume that once Lomax awoke he’d give his superiors his version of what happened. And if he was the leak behind the massacre, then it was a good bet he’d add a few extra details in order to lay the blame entirely at Bishop’s door.

  At least there had been no mention at all of Roger and Eleanor Souza, though, which suggested they’d kept their word, at least. That meant the cops would still be on the lookout for two men and a boy, instead of just two men.

  And no mention of Charlie Hooper yet, which meant they still had a little breathing space. Not much, but some.

  Time enough to grab some food and maybe to make some minor adjustments to their appearance before getting back on the road again.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Bishop was first to finish his food. He was no expert in the kitchen, but it was almost impossible to screw up steak and scrambled eggs. Strickland was still making his way through his, though. He’d argued that he wasn’t hungry, but Bishop had told him he had to eat something if he wanted to keep going and he’d grudgingly agreed to try.

  Clea was also sitting at the table, silently staring into her mug of coffee as though there might be a way out of this at the bottom.

  As Bishop took a sip from his glass of water, he looked out the rear windows and saw it was already completely black outside. They’d need to get going soon. Once a few more details were taken care of.

  ‘There’s more bad news to come, isn’t there?’ Clea said, still staring at her cup.

  Bishop turned back to her. ‘What do you mean?’

  She raised her eyes to him. ‘I mean that I’ve been sitting here thinking it all over and it’s obvious to me that you can’t afford to just take off and leave me here. Am I right?’

  Bishop sighed. ‘I’m afraid you are.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Strickland said, wiping his mouth with a piece of kitchen towel.

  ‘Clea here will have to come with us. At least part of the way.’

  ‘I knew it,’ she said. ‘I just knew this day was going to get worse.’

  Strickland frowned. ‘What’s wrong with tying her up like we did with the pilot? We can take her down to the basement, tie her up and make her comfortable, then make an anonymous call to the cops tomorrow.’

  Bishop shook his head. ‘What we did with Charlie won’t work here. For one thing, he’ll have gotten himself free in a few hours and once he does he’ll get straight on his radio, then meet up with whoever was waiting for us at that airfield. Possibly local cops, possibly feds, but whoever it is, it won’t take them long to figure out who else was on that plane.’

  ‘You figure Charlie will talk, then?’

  ‘Not straight away, but they’ll get the whole story out of him sooner or later and then there’ll be roadblocks set up from here to the East Coast.’

  ‘Why? They don’t know where we’re going. Nor does Charlie.’

  ‘He knew we were heading east, and that’ll be enough. The feds will take one look at
a map and figure we’re headed for Ohio. They won’t know the reason why, although they’ll probably assume I’m taking you to my supposed employer, Hartnell.’

  ‘Hartnell?’ Clea said.

  ‘The guy I’m supposed to be testifying against,’ Strickland said. ‘But they can’t set up roadblocks on every single road. It’s impossible. So all we have to do is stick to the back roads and we should be okay.’

  ‘We can avoid most of them that way, sure, but if we do come up against a roadblock I’d prefer having the car’s legitimate owner there with us, with the correct documents and everything.’

  ‘Yeah, okay,’ Strickland said slowly. ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘Sorry, Clea,’ Bishop said, ‘but it’s the only way.’

  ‘But I can’t go with you,’ she said. ‘Can’t you see that? Just leave me here. I swear I won’t tell anyone about you. Look, I’m a mother myself, with a daughter who expects—’

  ‘How old is she?’ Bishop cut in.

  She gaped at him. ‘What?’

  ‘I said, how is old is your daughter? I saw photos of you with a pretty little girl in the hallway, but they could have been taken anytime. How old is Lucy now?’

  ‘How do you know her name’s Lucy?’

  ‘From that phone conversation with your ex-husband back at the shop.’

  Her face relaxed a little. ‘Oh, yes, right. Well, she’s eleven if you must know. Almost twelve.’

  ‘Almost the same age as Barney,’ Bishop said. ‘And you must love her very much, right?’

  ‘Of course I love her. She’s the world to me. What kind of question’s that?’

  ‘I’m just trying to get across that my associate here is just as attached to Barney as you are to Lucy. The only difference being that your little girl’s currently safe with her father, while his son’s currently in the hands of some people who’ll go to any lengths to get what they want. And I do mean any lengths. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t dream of taking you with us, Clea, but with Barney’s life at stake I really don’t have a choice.’