by Dean, Jason
The boy cleared his throat and said, ‘Hey, Dad?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m sorry.’
Strickland suddenly wrapped a hand over his mouth and made a short choking sound. Clea was also watching Strickland with dewy eyes as he struggled to retain control of himself. Bishop’s own eyes were dry as they always were. That didn’t mean he wasn’t affected, though. It was just the last time he’d wept had been on learning of the accident that had killed his parents. And, like him, Barney had not only lost his mother recently, but he had to know he was in danger of losing his father too, yet he was still holding it together somehow. Drawing on his inner strength to stay on top of things.
Remarkable.
Strickland finally took his hand away from his mouth, and in a tight voice said, ‘You got nothing to be sorry about, son. Nothing at all. You understand me?’
‘I just meant …’
‘I know what you meant, and I want you to stop thinking that way. It won’t do any good. If anybody’s to blame it’s me for wasting my life all those years, so don’t be thinking like that, okay? You promise me?’
‘Okay, Dad, I promise.’
‘Good. Now I’m going to get you out of there. That’s my promise to you. So I don’t want you to worry, okay? You play your Tetris and do whatever it takes to get your mind off all this, because it’s my problem, not yours. I need you to stay strong for me. Can you do that?’
‘I’ll try, Dad. Um, look, the man’s making signals that he wants the phone back so I better go. I love you, Dad.’
‘I love you too, son. Don’t you ever forget it.’
‘I won’t. ’Bye.’
Bishop heard the speaker being smothered by something. There was silence for a few seconds.
‘Son?’ Strickland said in a tentative voice. ‘You still there?’
‘’Fraid not,’ Callaway’s voice came back. ‘Just thought I’d step outside for a moment. Some things a boy shouldn’t have to hear, don’t you agree?’
‘Yeah,’ Strickland said.
‘All right, I let you have a good long chat with him so you can see I’m holding my end of the deal. And I know for a fact you’ve managed to steer clear of the boys in uniform so far, so it looks like you’re doing the same. Where are you now?’
‘On the road,’ Bishop said. ‘And closer to you than we were.’
Callaway did that crinkled paper sound again. ‘So you’re still with us too, friend?’
‘All the way to the end. Don’t you think it’s time we discussed our final destination?’
‘What’s the rush? You just get yourselves over to our friendly state first, then we’ll worry about the rest of it. You still remember our deadline, I hope.’
‘We’re not likely to forget.’
‘Good. I’ll call you at five a.m. on Thursday and then we’ll talk about the location for the switch.’
‘I’ll want to talk to him again before then,’ Strickland said.
‘I figured you would, so expect another call tomorrow at around the same time.’
There was a click and the line went dead.
In the rear-view, Bishop watched Strickland sink into the back seat with his head lowered. Clea turned to look at him. She seemed about to say something, but Bishop shook his head at her. Sometimes silence was best. This was one of those times. Clea finally nodded back before facing front again.
Bishop just drove into the night and thought about Barney. And Strickland. And Hartnell and Callaway. And the deadline, of course. He couldn’t avoid thinking about that. Not with the LED light of the dashboard clock flashing back at him.
20.23.
Less than thirty-four hours to go.
THIRTY-EIGHT
It was 05.25 the following morning when Bishop realized he’d have to stop pretty soon. He’d been driving most of the night and felt shattered. He’d had a couple of hours sleep earlier when Strickland took over the reins for a while, but that had come to an abrupt end when he’d woken Bishop up with news of some kind of roadblock ahead of them.
That had been around the Castle Rock area, south of Denver, and they’d been heading east on one of the less-used highways. Fortunately, the land was flat enough around that part of Colorado for the shimmering police lights to be visible from half a mile away. Bishop had instructed Strickland to turn off the headlights and pull over. After switching places, he’d then backtracked until he found a minor road that would take them south and then east again.
Somehow they’d travelled almost six hundred miles through the night, using Clea’s dwindling cash reserves to twice fill the tank along the way, and now they were stuck on the back roads of Kansas, right in the heart of the Midwest.
As a result, he was tired. And when you were tired you made mistakes. And he couldn’t afford to make a single one. He needed to rest, just for an hour or so. He also needed to eat something and to stretch his legs. But mostly he needed to get out of this vehicle for a while. They all did.
They were currently driving along a two-lane highway that ran parallel to Highway 160 five miles south of them. About thirty miles to the north-east was Wichita, which, being the largest city in Kansas, was to be avoided at all costs. The sky was brightening a little on the eastern horizon, although full sunrise was still about half an hour away. There was almost no traffic along the route they were on though, with just farmland and trees on both sides and the occasional farmhouse or ranch to break things up. They’d passed an old-style gas station a couple of miles back, but that was all. It had been closed.
‘Some kind of sign up ahead,’ Strickland said from the back seat.
‘I see it,’ Bishop said, although he hadn’t. That was worrying. And yet another reason to stop.
Bishop slowed when he reached the road sign, which was illuminated by an old, dim spotlight hanging over the top. The sign itself was old and weatherworn and told them to call in at Toby’s Grill one mile up ahead for Local Grub at Local Prices.
‘I’d say we’re overdue a pit stop,’ Strickland said. ‘I could do with some breakfast, or at least some coffee, and maybe a trip to the restroom.’
‘I was thinking the same thing,’ Bishop said. ‘I just hope it’s open.’
‘Hey, this is farm country. Life starts early around here.’
Ninety seconds later, they had their answer. Bishop slowed the vehicle when he saw another weatherworn sign by the road, lit by another single bulb hanging over the top. There was a large red arrow pointing right and underneath were the words, Welcome – We’re OPEN! Bishop turned into the entranceway a few yards up ahead and entered a small dirt lot. A dark pick-up and an old Chevy were parked in front of a small, single-level clapboard building. The lights were on and he could see several people sitting inside. To the left and set a little ways back was a wooden garage with a set of closed double doors.
‘Guy must do a roaring trade around here,’ Strickland said.
‘Mostly local clientele, I expect,’ Bishop said. ‘He probably makes enough to get by.’
He swung the car in a U-turn and reversed until he was parked next to the pick-up. It was always a good idea to leave your vehicle facing outwards. Just in case.
As soon as he switched off the engine, Clea gave a yawn and hunched her shoulders as she reached into her jacket pocket and donned her spectacles. ‘Where are we now?’ she asked, looking around.
‘Somewhere in West Kansas. I thought it might be an idea to grab some breakfast while we can. Are you hungry at all?’
She gave another yawn and shook her head. ‘Not really.’
‘Well, maybe some coffee then.’ To Strickland he said, ‘You and Clea better go in first while I wait here. You get any suspicious looks from anybody you come straight back out and we’ll find somewhere else. If you’re not out within sixty seconds I’ll assume everything’s okay and come join you.’
‘Right,’ Strickland said, and the pair got out and walked over to the main entrance. Bishop watched Strickla
nd open the door, wait for Clea to go first, then follow her inside.
Bishop waited a few more seconds and then checked himself in the rear-view. The pale blue eyes that gazed back at him were red-rimmed and dull. He pulled out the old pair of frames that Clea had found in the basement and put them on, then inspected his face carefully in the mirror again. It seemed there was a slight softening of his facial features with them on, or maybe he was just imagining things. Either way, the glasses couldn’t hurt.
Once ninety seconds had passed without any sign of Strickland or Clea, Bishop exited the car. It was a cold frosty morning, but the crisp air gave him the immediate boost he needed. He stretched his arms and ironed out the kinks in his neck before locking up and making for the main entrance. After making sure the Glock was in the back of his waistband where it should be, he entered the small, no-frills establishment with half a dozen tables arranged in the centre, and three booths set against the left wall. Clea and Strickland were sitting in the middle booth.
A grey-haired couple were eating breakfast at one of the central tables. They each gave Bishop a mildly curious look as he came in, but didn’t stop eating.
At the rear was a small counter where two brawny farmer-types in baseball caps, thick coats and jeans were sat drinking coffee with the bearded guy on the other side. This man wore a cook’s apron and looked to be in his fifties, with receding grey hair and a nose that was a darker shade of pink than the rest of his face. Either he was a boozer, or one who’d just given up. To the left of the counter was a hallway leading back to the kitchen. Bishop could hear the sounds of country and western music coming from back there.
The three men were all idly watching the new arrivals. Bishop didn’t sense any recognition in their faces. The two customers drank their coffees and the guy in the apron said, ‘Mornin’.’
‘How you doing,’ Bishop said.
Bishop went over to the middle booth and sat down next to Clea, so he was facing the front window. ‘You ordered yet?’ he asked.
‘Not yet,’ Strickland said. ‘The guy said he’d be over in a minute.’
Bishop studied Clea’s profile and said, ‘So you managed to get some sleep?’
‘Some.’ She looked at him. ‘How much longer do you think you’ll last without any?’
‘I got a couple of hours in earlier. I’ll be fine.’
On the table, amongst the condiments, was a tube of wooden toothpicks. Strickland plucked one from the opening and stuck it between his lips. ‘Maybe I should drive for a while,’ he said.
‘Yeah, maybe you should,’ Bishop said. ‘But still wake me if anything comes up.’
‘Okay, but I can probably—’
Strickland stopped when he saw the guy in the apron coming over. He handed the two men a handwritten card menu each, ignoring Clea. Up close Bishop could see the man’s nose was a mass of broken capillaries. He also noticed a folded Racing Form sticking out of the guy’s back pocket.
Bishop gave the menu a cursory look and saw there were only three choices anyway. He passed it to Clea and said, ‘I’ll have the ham, scrambled eggs, and hash browns. And a large pot of coffee. Emphasis on large.’
Strickland ordered the same, while Clea quietly ordered the cheese and tomato omelette and a Coke.
‘Be about ten, fifteen minutes,’ the man said, ‘since it’s just me doin’ all the cooking. That okay with you?’
‘That’s fine,’ Bishop said and yawned.
The guy frowned at Bishop. ‘Can’t say we get too many strangers in here. You just passin’ through?’
‘Yeah,’ Bishop said, ‘we’re on our way to Wichita. Old buddy of mine over there said he’s got a business proposition for me and my brother here.’
‘Yeah? What kinda business you in?’
‘We buy and sell antique coins.’
The guy nodded. ‘Antique coins, huh? What, by mail order?’
‘Mostly over the internet these days. Listen, you’re Toby, right?’
‘Sure am.’
‘Well, Toby, no offence but if I don’t get some of your coffee in me pretty soon I think I might just pass out on your floor, and then you’ll never wake me up.’
‘Gotcha.’ Toby’s grin showed discoloured teeth. ‘One pot of coffee coming right up,’ he said, and left them.
Less than a minute later he came back with a tray bearing a large pot of coffee, two cups, two saucers, one glass tumbler and one can of Coke. After setting them all down on the table he returned to the kitchen. The two men at the counter had already lost interest by this point and gone back to their own conversation.
Strickland poured coffee into the two cups. Bishop slid one over, took a sip and deemed it satisfactory. Not as good or as strong as the stuff Delaney had made, but it was palatable. And hot.
Clea poured Coke into her glass. ‘Don’t tell me. I’m paying for all this too, right?’
‘Sorry,’ Bishop said. ‘I’ll pay you back once we get through this.’
Her mouth twisted. ‘If you get through this.’
‘Let’s try and stay positive, shall we?’
She studied him for a moment, then shook her head and looked away.
Bishop leaned his head back against the seat rest, took another sip of the coffee, and found his thoughts returning to Delaney again. He knew it was pointless, but he couldn’t help it. He could still see that moment when she’d landed on the floor inches away from him, bleeding heavily from neck and chest wounds, and with a puzzled expression on her face, as though she was thinking, It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I had plans.
But she was only one reason why he wanted the person responsible for leaking the safe house location in the first place. The other was if he could discover that person’s identity maybe he could use that information to his advantage when the time came to hand Strickland over. Or maybe not. But in any case, the more information he had the better.
As for the who, his thoughts naturally turned to the only other survivor, Lomax. Bishop felt sure the assault team in Vegas would have been under orders to finish off any remaining survivors, yet Lomax had been left alive. Why?
Well, what if Lomax’s role had simply been to set them all up and then afterwards shift all the blame onto the newcomer, Bishop, thus taking the focus away from the real source? It was a possibility. A slim one, maybe, but you had to consider every alternative. Also, during that firefight Bishop had found the wounded Lomax trying to call somebody on his cell. At the time he’d assumed the guy was calling for more backup, but what if he had been trying to contact his real employer instead? Maybe to tell him that all the other marshals were either dead or dying, so get your men to stop the shooting and enter the house already.
But for what possible motive? Money? Bishop didn’t think so in this case. Sure, marshals were human and susceptible to the same temptations as everyone else, but Lomax would surely have known that he was setting up his colleagues for certain death, and no amount of cash would have been able to wipe that kind of betrayal away. Some people could do it. Bishop had worked alongside one or two who easily fit the profile, but Lomax really hadn’t seemed the sociopathic type. Not with that look in his eyes when he’d been thinking about his dog back home.
But it didn’t have to be money. What if his wife, Karen, was the motive?
What if Hartnell ordered some of his men to grab the wife in order to put pressure on the husband? He knew from recent personal experience that a man would do almost anything to protect those he loves, maybe even sell out his whole team.
On top of which, there was that tense phone call Bishop had woken up to. Delaney had given him a very reasonable explanation at the time, but what if there was more to the call than basic marital suspicion and mistrust? Since Hartnell already knew their location at that point, maybe Lomax was being given some last-minute instructions. That would certainly help explain the hidden keys in the SUV. Because Delaney was a pro, and a pro would have gone through the house and checked and rechecke
d everything on a continual basis. And she would have definitely noticed if the keys to the SUV weren’t in the ignition where they were supposed to be. So maybe Lomax had been instructed to get rid of the keys as a final insurance to prevent anybody getting out. And since Lomax knew Delaney’s habits, maybe he’d played it safe and had the keys simply ‘fall’ and get lodged under the floor mat instead.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
It was a pretty good theory, but that’s all it was right now. And Bishop couldn’t exactly do anything about it anyway, at least not yet. He already had enough to worry about, such as getting them all through the rest of the day.
THIRTY-NINE
Bishop finished his breakfast and moved his empty plate to the side. He’d been a lot hungrier than he’d originally thought, and Toby hadn’t skimped on the portions either. He poured himself more coffee and watched Clea pick at her omelette unenthusiastically. Strickland was almost done with his. As for the other customers, the elderly couple had settled their bill and left already, with the two guys at the counter following them shortly after. Nobody else had come in since they’d arrived.
Maybe business would pick up later on, although Bishop kind of doubted it. It was starting to get light outside, and Bishop noticed a faint ground fog rolling in from the surrounding fields, making it hard to see anything beyond the empty road out front.
Strickland finally put down his fork and said, ‘There’s still one thing I can’t get my head around.’
‘Only one thing?’ Bishop said.
Strickland gave a thin smile. ‘Just this one for now. And that’s what the hell made you join up with us in the first place. I don’t get it. What was in it for you?’
‘If you must know, Delaney said she’d owe me a favour once it was over.’
