The Wrong Man

by Jason Dean

  Thorpe’s gun hand wavered a little, and in the low moonlight Bishop watched him blink. ‘Couldn’t bear touching it again,’ he said. ‘Not with her stink on it. You know, I think she probably smells better now than when she was alive.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Thorpe said, and his gun moved slightly off its target.

  ‘Oh, she’s dead all right.’

  ‘Not that,’ Thorpe said, and the gun moved back again. ‘The face slashing. That isn’t your style at all.’

  ‘Don’t count on it. You tend to bring out the worst in people.’

  ‘I don’t buy it. You don’t have the strength of will for that kind of work.’

  ‘Strength of will? Is that all you need to torture a helpless victim, or does there need to be a personal element, too?’

  ‘We talking about Natalie Brennan now?’

  ‘Who else?’ Bishop said. Cupping the fingers of his left hand, he began to straighten his arm down and said, ‘She must have really got her hooks into you, for you to slice her up like you did.’

  ‘Maybe just a little,’ Thorpe said, moving his gun around again to underline the last word. ‘Who knows? Just a shame I didn’t have more time to play with her, but I was working to a deadline that day.’ He shook his head. ‘Man, don’t you just hate deadlines?’

  Bishop said nothing. With his left arm now straight, he allowed the knife to slide down his elbow until the polymer handle landed on his middle two fingers.

  Thorpe said, ‘To be honest, she reminded me a lot of a girl from my past, and I always get carried away when that little whore rears her pretty head.’

  ‘Yeah? You kill her, too?’ The blade had snagged against the shirt cuff and Bishop stretched his arm to try to free it. No good. He couldn’t extend it far enough.

  ‘I had to, before she dragged me down with her. You must have known girls like that, right?’

  Not really, Bishop thought, but he shrugged and the shoulder movement allowed enough space for the blade to come free of his cuff. Then he began using his fingers to carefully rotate the knife like the second hand on a clock, so it was pointing towards the floor. Just keep talking, Thorpe, he thought. Let it all out. I’m a real good listener.

  ‘Sure you have,’ Thorpe said. ‘Every man meets his female nemesis at some point in his life. Fiona was mine.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like she was,’ Bishop said, flinching as the blade cut into his pinkie finger. ‘Yours, I mean.’

  ‘Ha. Ain’t that the truth. Any guy who crossed her path was fair game for her, and she couldn’t wait to tell me about each and every one of them.’ Thorpe shrugged. ‘It was just Natalie’s bad luck she looked so similar.’

  ‘You sure taught her a lesson, though, right?’ Bishop said. He manoeuvred the blade carefully along until he had it lodged tight between his index finger and thumb. The other three fingers lined up next to the index finger for support. He was ready.

  ‘Yeah, well, I admit I went a little crazy with the knife at the end there.’ Thorpe chuckled to himself. ‘Heat of the moment, you know?’

  Bishop was only partly listening. Most of his attention was on the barrel of the Glock. Waiting for something in Thorpe’s speech pattern that would cause the gun to point away from Bishop’s head. Just for a second.

  ‘So if you think you can bait me by telling me how you killed Danny,’ Thorpe said, tapping his gun in the air like a drumstick on every third or fourth word, ‘well, I can’t deny I’m a little pissed off, but life goes on. Or at least, my—’

  And when the gun barrel moved this time, so did Bishop.

  ONE HUNDRED AND ONE

  He had to throw it underhanded, which wasn’t his favoured style. But he’d already picked out his target, and the moment the gun barrel wavered an inch to the left of his head, he bent his knees, brought his left arm back and, keeping his wrist straight, swung it towards Thorpe. At the last possible moment, he let go of the knife.

  He didn’t actually see it leave his outstretched hand. One moment it was between his fingers, the next it was in Thorpe’s right shoulder, just beneath the collarbone. Thorpe grunted in surprise and looked down at the weapon protruding from his body as his gun hand jerked upwards in reflex and fired a shot into the ceiling.

  Bishop rushed towards Thorpe and rammed his shoulders into his chest, his left hand grabbing hold of Thorpe’s right wrist as they both fell back through the doorway to the connecting room. Bishop got a foot under one of Thorpe’s to trip him and both men landed on the floor in a jumbled heap. He lost his grip on Thorpe’s gun hand and Thorpe quickly rolled to the side and plucked the knife from his shoulder with his free hand.

  Bishop saw the last folding chair a few feet away. He got to his feet and picked it up. He slammed it shut and saw Thorpe bringing the Glock round in his direction. Grabbing the flattened chair by its legs, Bishop raised it above his shoulders and swung it like a tennis racquet at the side of Thorpe’s head, hearing a satisfying crack as it made contact. Thorpe slammed back against the floor while the gun skittered across the carpet into one of the corners.

  Bishop dropped the chair and placed his heel on Thorpe’s left wrist, grinding it hard into the skin until the hand opened and the knife fell out. Thorpe groaned in pain and clutched his ruined wrist. Bishop knelt down, retrieved his knife and pressed it against Thorpe’s throat, the blade digging into the flesh just above the Adam’s apple.

  ‘Don’t,’ Thorpe said.

  ‘Shut up,’ Bishop said, and ran his hands over Thorpe’s clothes. He found two more syringes inside the jacket. Each was unmarked and held a clear solution, just like the one he’d been given in Price’s basement. Bishop put them in his pocket. He also found a pack of batteries, a set of keys and two cell phones. He tossed the batteries and keys and checked the phones. Jenna’s Motorola and one that had to be Thorpe’s. He pocketed the Motorola and tossed the other.

  ‘Stay right there,’ Bishop said and got to his feet.

  Thorpe remained on his back with his left hand clutching his shoulder wound and the other hand gripping the left wrist. Watching Bishop.

  Bishop went over and picked up the Glock. Then he went over to the window and looked down. A three-storey drop. No ledge. Same as before. Not exactly a viable means of escape. Especially not in Thorpe’s current condition. Satisfied, he walked into the next room. With one eye on the entranceway, he picked up his Beretta and the Steyr. He stuck the Beretta in his waistband, emptied the Glock of ammunition and placed the shells on Brennan’s desk. Wiping his prints from the gun, he pulled the vault door open and tossed it inside. Same procedure with the Steyr, although this he threw into the hallway outside.

  Bishop walked back into the adjoining room and saw Thorpe was trying to sit up.

  ‘Don’t bother getting up,’ Bishop said. He grabbed hold of Thorpe’s collar and dragged him along the floor into the other room. When he reached the bookshelves, he let go and just waited while Thorpe propped himself against them.

  Thorpe touched his left cheek and winced. ‘Look, I wasn’t lying about that footage of you and Cortiss,’ he said. ‘I got it in storage. I can take you right to it.’

  ‘Later,’ Bishop said. ‘First, tell me where you hid the other three parts of the file. We’ll be going through the house together and if you’re lying about any of the locations, I’ll remove your thumbs. To start with.’

  ‘Hey, no problem. First one’s in the kitchen, behind the back plate of the oven. Just need to click it free and you’ll see it. Next one’s in the room those two idiots broke into. The space under the windowsill.’

  ‘And the third?’

  ‘That gazebo out back. Under one of the paving stones. Want me to take you now?’ Thorpe placed a hand on the floor and began to rise.

  Bishop motioned with the gun. ‘I told you not to get up.’

  ‘What? But I thought . . .’ Thorpe’s eyes widened and he raised his palm towards Bishop. ‘Hey, hey, don’t forget the footage. I swear I wasn’t lying
about that. You think I’d get rid of something I could use against you? On that key chain you took from my pocket, there’s a key that opens a unit at a place called Armistad Storage. It’s on Southern Boulevard in the Bronx, and they got thousands of units there. You’ll never find it without me.’

  Bishop shrugged and said, ‘You’re probably right.’ He reached into his own pocket, pulled out the two syringes and dropped them on Thorpe’s lap. ‘But right now, I want you to take your pick of these and choose a vein.’

  Thorpe looked down at them, his mouth open. Then back at Bishop.

  ‘I’m giving you the same choice you gave me, Thorpe. Assuming they contain the same junk, you’ll have an hour before you can move again. I figure it won’t take the cops long to figure out where I’ve gone, especially if somebody saw this house lit up earlier. You might beat them, which is unlikely, or you might end up with a lot of explaining to do. But you’ll be alive.’

  Thorpe just stared at him and said, ‘Hey, come on now . . .’

  ‘Or I can shoot you right now.’ Bishop aimed the gun at his head. ‘I’d recommend the second choice. It’s quicker and cleaner, but it’s your decision. No more talk. You got thirty seconds.’

  Thorpe just stared at the syringes in his lap, shaking his head as he picked one up. He rolled up his left sleeve and Bishop watched him pop the protective cap off and insert the needle into his arm. Then he depressed the plunger until there was nothing left.

  ‘Good. Now break the needles off against the floor and put the hypos in your pocket.’

  Thorpe did as he was told and said, ‘You’ll never find that storage locker on your own.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter any more,’ Bishop said. ‘What does matter is that Natalie died right here in this room. And she died hard.’

  He crouched down and Thorpe flinched.

  ‘See, that’s the part that bothers me most,’ he continued. ‘Natalie was just a kid with a life full of choice ahead of her. Until you came along and cut it short like it was nothing. And you made her last minutes on earth a living hell, while I was maybe a hundred feet away. That’s some debt I owe her. Today, we’re gonna balance the books a little.’ He waved a hand in front of Thorpe’s face, but the eyes just stared straight ahead. He picked up Thorpe’s hand by the index finger and watched it drop back onto his lap like a lump of clay. ‘Looks like your special cocktail’s really kicking in now. Anything to say while you’re still able?’

  Thorpe blinked and visibly swallowed a couple of times. Then, without moving his lips, he said, ‘You’ll . . . kill . . . ee . . . ow?’

  ‘Sorry, Thorpe. Unlike you, I keep my promises. You’ll stay alive a while longer, but I guarantee you won’t like it. Here, I’ll show you.’

  Bishop stood up, took hold of Thorpe’s collar again and dragged him through the doorway into the vault. He propped Thorpe against the wall, then pulled out his flashlight and shone it around the interior until he found the lamp on the floor. He walked over and switched it on. The light was dim, but it allowed him to see the vault interior clearly enough. The room was about ten foot by twenty. No visible air vents and a ceiling close enough to touch. Nice and cosy. He looked at the bottles of water and dried foods Thorpe had brought in. And the open laptop in the middle of the floor and another cell phone that looked familiar. Walking over, he picked up his Nokia and said, ‘You won’t need this any more.’ He put it in his pocket and then stamped on the laptop. ‘Or that.’

  The food and water he left.

  Bishop examined the three-inch thick door from this side. Its only feature was the inner handle. There were no emergency release or alarm buttons in sight. Banks had them, but Brennan had clearly decided they weren’t needed in a private vault. No combination settings units either, so any changes presumably had to be done via the outer dial while the door was open.

  ‘You know, if I was a betting man,’ he said, ‘I’d wager you reset the combination on this a while back, so only you could access it.’ Bishop looked around the chamber again. ‘That’d be the smart thing to do, and you always were smart. I wonder how long the air will last once the door shuts. I’m guessing thirty-six hours. Forty-eight at a push, although it’ll probably seem a lot longer. Still, it’ll give you time to think.’ He nodded at the lamp on the floor. ‘And you’ve got that. I wouldn’t want to leave you completely in the dark.’ He crouched down before Thorpe. ‘Walls beginning to close in yet?’

  Thorpe’s lids blinked automatically. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest was just visible, but nothing else moved.

  Bishop said, ‘When I was in that basement you left me my gun, so I thought I’d grant you the same courtesy.’ He pointed a finger at the empty Glock lying near the broken laptop. ‘You’ll find it just over there.’

  Then he stood and checked the vault one final time. He turned, and was about to step through the doorway when he remembered the Beretta in his waistband. He pulled it out. The bullets in three of the bodies could be matched to this gun, but without serial numbers it couldn’t be traced to him. Not if it wasn’t on his person. He ejected the six remaining rounds and pocketed them. Then he wiped the gun and magazine of prints before dropping it on the floor. As he stepped through the entrance he turned and said, ‘When you pull the trigger, I want you to think of Natalie.’

  He pulled the steel door shut, pushing the handle down until he heard the locking bar click into place with a heavy, metallic thud. He spun the dial anti-clockwise a few times, then tried pulling the handle into the open position. It wouldn’t budge. Bishop placed his palm on the vault door and smiled before pulling the bookcase across to cover it up again.

  Sweet dreams, Thorpe.

  Turning to the desk, he took the six rounds from his pocket and added them to the rest. Might as well leave them here. No point taking them with him if he no longer had a gun. Although the casings would still have his prints on them. Bishop needed to split before the cops showed up, but he could spare a few seconds to wipe them off first. Having the law place him at the scene of another bloodbath was the last thing he needed. He grabbed hold of his shirt tail and was using it to pick up the first shell when he heard the soft scuffle of feet and turned round.

  An Arabic man in a black tracksuit stood in the doorway. His arm was outstretched towards Bishop and at the end of it was a gun.

  Bishop saw a flash and then something punched him in the solar plexus. He fell against the desk and collapsed to the floor, both legs stretched out before him, head propped against a table leg. He saw another flash and his body jerked as something slammed into his left thigh. He coughed and felt the metallic taste of blood in his throat, and he wondered why he hadn’t heard either of the shots.

  He looked up and saw the man enter the room and point the gun at his head. And he understood. Silencer. At the same time, weird pulsating colours started to appear at the edges of his vision and he wondered what they meant. He closed his eyes and the colours disappeared. That was better. They were beginning to annoy him.

  Bishop decided to keep his eyes closed for a while. He already had a good idea of what was coming next.

  ONE HUNDRED AND TWO

  When Bishop opened his eyes agian, the room was bathed in light and the gun had been replaced by three others. They were all pointing at his head and looked to be Heckler & Koch MP5s. Longer versions of the machine pistols used by Cortiss and his band of mercenaries three years before. The owners of these ones wore ski masks and dark jump-suits. Looks like we’ve come full circle, Bishop thought, and smiled.

  The man in the centre moved aside. In the gap, Bishop saw a woman in similar battle gear walking towards him. Instead of a ski mask, she wore a black cap that didn’t entirely hide her blond hair. Deputy Marshal Delaney crouched down in front of him and he saw she was another one of those women who looked prettier close up. She didn’t look as stern in real life and the intense, dark brown eyes reminded him a lot of his sister Amy.

  Bishop slowly stretched his arms out toward
s her with his wrists held together.

  A corner of Delaney’s mouth turned up and she pushed his arms down again. ‘You don’t have much respect for our intelligence, do you, Bishop?’

  He said nothing. Just watched her look at the bandaged hand before her gaze turned to the gunshot wounds in his side and thigh. The blood had clotted while he was out and it looked as though the bullets hadn’t hit any vital arteries. Everything still hurt, though.

  ‘Try not to move. Ambulance is on its way and should get here in another ten minutes. I think you’ll live in the meantime, tough guy like you.’

  Bishop cleared his throat and asked, ‘How’d you find me?’

  ‘We checked all the messages on Daniella Costa’s cell and found a reference to something known as BH. It took a while but I thought this house seemed worth a look.’

  ‘There was a fifth man . . .’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘He thought he could blast his way out. He was wrong.’ She turned to the men surrounding her and said, ‘Okay, guys. I think I can handle him from here.’ The men lowered their weapons and silently walked out of the room, one by one. She watched them go and turned back to Bishop. ‘Everything here shouts a deal gone wrong. I’m guessing the dead men were Thorpe’s buyers for the file you found?’

  Bishop creased his brow together. That hurt, too. ‘You know about Thorpe?’

  ‘I told you we’re not stupid. Even before Miss Falstaff told us her story, I knew there was something wrong with the guy. The past ten hours have been illuminating, to say the least.’

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘I’m the one with the badge,’ she said, ‘which means you go first. Try to be concise.’

  Bishop took a breath and then gave a condensed account of the last four days, leaving out Aleron, Luke, Wilson, and the break-in at RoyseCorp. As for his presence here, he’d come to confront Thorpe and found himself caught in a crossfire between the two parties. He’d been searching the house for Thorpe when the fifth man shot him.