The Wrong Man (6 page)

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 be
lieve
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.

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 again. 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.

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.

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.