The Outsider (James Bishop 4)

by Dean, Jason

  ‘There,’ Strickland said, pointing to something up ahead on the right.

  Bishop followed his finger and saw, under the glow of a streetlight, a row of shuttered stores that looked similar to those on the website photo. As they cruised slowly past Bishop saw they were the very same units, and in the same state of disrepair. It didn’t look as though the consortium had made a whole lot of progress so far.

  To the left of the units was a large vacant lot. And past that, about five hundred feet further along, was the old movie theatre.

  Bishop could just about make out the CARDINAL letters on the side of the building, while a ten-foot-high wooden fence partly screened it off from the vacant lot on its right. As they came closer he saw the ancient marquee hanging over the front and the thick wooden planks still nailed over the front entrance and windows. As they were passing it, Bishop saw a narrow passageway between the building and the fence, no doubt leading to a parking area at the rear. It was protected by a chain-link fence and steel gate halfway down.

  Then they were past it. Two more shuttered-up businesses served as neighbours before they came to the end of the block. Bishop turned right at the intersection into McNeely Street and saw an old Chevy sedan parked by the kerb twenty feet away. He pulled in behind it and brought the vehicle to a stop. He switched off the engine.

  It was 00.29.

  ‘You stay in the car,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave the keys in the ignition. If something happens, like cops showing up and showing an interest, anything, you drive away.’

  ‘What? You mean leave you here?’

  ‘Preferably not, but do what the situation demands. Circle the block and come back if you can, but only if you think it’s safe.’

  ‘What if you don’t come back out? Hey, don’t look at me like that. It could happen.’

  ‘I won’t let it. Remember what I said about a positive attitude? But if the worst does happen, then you’ve got no other choice but to go to the feds and tell them everything.’

  Strickland looked incredulous. ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘I mean it. At least with them Barney’ll have a chance. Without them he’s got none at all. But it won’t come to that. One way or the other I’ll be out of there within the next half an hour. Hand me the multi-tool, will you?’

  Strickland pulled out the multi-tool and handed it over. Bishop then pulled the Glock from his waistband, checked to make sure there was a round in the chamber, and put it back. He got out.

  ‘Don’t be late, man,’ Strickland said as he slid across into the driver’s seat.

  ‘I won’t be,’ Bishop said, then walked back towards the old theatre.

  SIXTY-NINE

  Bishop moved briskly past the two closed-up retail units on his left, slowing his pace a little when he reached the old movie house itself. The cold night air felt good against his face, and helped sharpen his senses until he felt they were close to their maximum setting. There were streetlights every fifty feet or so, more than enough to see by. He could also hear some faint traffic noises filtering through from adjacent streets, but he was still the only thing moving on South Shelbourne.

  Passing the theatre’s heavily boarded-up entrance, he turned left at the side passageway and kept on until he reached the chain-link fence and gate. The fence was about eight feet high and looked old and rusty. The gate itself was about seven feet wide, just big enough for a vehicle to pass through. Bishop smiled when he saw the padlock. It was on the other side of the gate. That alone told him he’d come to the right place.

  Looking to his left and right, he noticed that the steel terminal posts at each end and the two line posts on either side of the gate were permanently set into the concrete. That was good. He stepped over the left-hand terminal post and tried shaking it. The thing barely moved. Old, but solid. Bishop grabbed hold of the fence ties and climbed up without making a sound. Upon reaching the top rail, he dragged himself over and dropped down on the other side.

  Sticking close to the side of the building, Bishop carried on walking and when he reached the end, peered round the corner and saw a large open area that must have been a customer parking lot once. Without streetlights he had to rely on the faint moonlight filtering through the clouds, but he was able to see the wooden fence continued all the way round the lot. Laid alongside the fence thirty feet straight ahead were three abandoned wrecks – a sedan, a pick-up, and a station wagon of some kind. They were all missing windows and doors. None of them had wheels. It looked as though they’d been there for years. About fifty feet to his left, set close to the fence, were three very large dumpsters.

  A dog howled somewhere far away. Then another one joined it.

  Bishop turned the corner and kept going along the rear of the building. The few windows he passed on the first floor all had thick timber planks nailed across the openings. There were also a number of windows on the second floor, but they’d been left alone. Bishop finally stopped when he came to the rear exit, which was a rusty-looking steel fire door. Lying on the ground nearby were several two-by-fours, which indicated this was now the sole entrance and exit. The door itself looked pretty solid. And, of course, there was no handle.

  So how the hell did those two punks get in initially?

  Then he looked to his right and saw that not all the ground-floor windows were boarded up. There was a small awning window about ten feet to the right of the fire exit door, at about head height. Bishop went over and saw somebody had smashed one corner of the frosted safety glass, leaving a hole about the size of a fist. The window itself was about two feet across and a foot-and-a-half deep, and it opened inwards. He pressed an ear to the gap and listened. After a few seconds, he thought he could hear very faint music coming from somewhere inside. Maybe a radio, he wasn’t sure. But definitely signs of life.

  Pulling the mini flashlight from his pocket, Bishop switched it on and moved it around the gap. Beyond was a small men’s room, containing a single booth and two urinals against the right-hand wall. The room looked old and dirty. Probably a staff restroom, since the general public would have required something much bigger. Set in the left wall was a doorway, but no door. Bishop was able to see part of a corridor beyond that presumably led to the fire exit at his left.

  Bishop carefully reached his hand through the gap and felt around the frame until his fingers touched a metal catch at the bottom. He unlatched it and pushed the window up as far as it would go. The space was big enough. Just.

  He let it close again, clicked off the flashlight, and went over to the dumpsters. He still hadn’t seen their vehicle and felt certain they wouldn’t have risked parking on the street outside. So it had to be back here somewhere. And sure enough, as he got closer, he could make out a large SUV sitting between the nearest dumpster and the fence.

  He walked up to it. It was a Nissan Armada and looked about ten years old. He tried reaching under the hood, but there was barely any gap there at all. He couldn’t get a purchase. Pity. He’d have liked to remove the fuses that controlled the ignition, but there were always other ways to disable a vehicle.

  Removing the multi-tool, Bishop extracted the knife and circled the Nissan, making deep slashes in each tyre as he went. All four radials were flat within seconds. Satisfied his targets wouldn’t be making any quick getaways, Bishop turned back to the building and looked up. Now he was far enough away, he could see a faint light coming from the second-floor window directly above the fire exit door.

  So that’s where they were. Good.

  Bishop returned to the first-floor window and pushed it all the way open. Then he climbed up and slipped through the gap.

  SEVENTY

  Bishop gently lowered himself to the floor and sidled over to the doorway. It was as chilly inside as out, and the room also contained a strong musty smell. But no other odours, which suggested they were using another restroom upstairs. He peered round the doorway and saw a long, featureless corridor leading back into the building. There was also a faint light sou
rce coming from somewhere on the right, about thirty feet up ahead.

  Bishop pocketed the flashlight and pulled the Glock from his waistband.

  He stepped through the doorway and began walking slowly down the corridor towards the light source. He kept close to the left-hand wall, making sure not to step on the old food wrappers and ancient newspapers that littered the floor.

  The sounds he’d heard before gradually became a little more noticeable. It was a radio station, and he could make out a late-night DJ yacking on about something or other. But it was still very faint. Finally he came to the light source itself, which originated from above a concrete switchback stairwell on his right.

  The rest of the corridor was shrouded in darkness. Bishop guessed there was a door somewhere down there that led to the auditorium, as well as the lobby and box office.

  Still keeping close to the wall, Bishop began climbing the staircase. At the half-landing, he turned and climbed the rest of the steps until he reached the top. He saw the upper landing opened out onto another corridor that continued left towards the rear of the building, matching the one downstairs.

  From somewhere to his left the radio was now playing some old techno track, but the volume was very low, even up here, which proved these two weren’t complete dummies. If Bishop made a wrong sound, they’d hear it.

  Bishop poked part of his head out and saw the corridor went back another thirty feet or so, ending at the window he’d spotted outside. The main light was coming from a lantern on the floor, one of those battery-operated camping jobs with the handle at the top. A second light source was coming from an open doorway on the right, about ten or twelve feet away from Bishop. There was a second open doorway further down on the right, but that remained dark.

  He stepped fully out into the corridor, Glock at the ready.

  Now he was able to see there were also two more doorways on the left side. But these actually had doors, both of which were shut. He couldn’t hear anything else over the faint sound of the radio. Bishop inched along the corridor towards the first open doorway, the Glock hanging at his side.

  When he reached the doorjamb, he peered round into the room and saw the black guy from the footage: the one called Curtis.

  He was sitting in profile to Bishop with his back to the wall, still wearing the same leather jacket, and moving his fingers over an iPad. It looked like he was playing a computer game. That seemed to be where the music was coming from too. There was an open bottle of beer lying on the floor, just by his right hip. Next to the bottle was a large-calibre revolver. The light came from another lantern in the far corner.

  Bishop edged round the doorjamb and raised the Glock, aiming it at the man’s chest while he took in the rest of the room. But other than the lantern and some empty pizza boxes stacked against one wall, the room was empty. No other furnishings and, more importantly, no Roy and no Karen Lomax.

  The song faded out and a car commercial came on.

  Curtis must have sensed movement. He looked up from the iPad and stared at Bishop. He began to open his mouth, but Bishop immediately raised an index finger to his lips and he clamped it shut. He still didn’t look worried, just surprised. Dropping the iPad on his lap, he glanced down at the gun a few inches away from his right hand. He then looked up at Bishop, who slowly shook his head.

  Bishop was just about to step into the room when he heard the sound of a door opening behind him.

  ‘Shoot him!’ Leather Jacket shouted, and rolled his body away from the wall.

  Bishop, already half-turning towards the corridor, squeezed off two shots at the black man as he lunged for his own piece. There was a hoarse grunt from within the room, and Bishop had just enough time to hope he hadn’t hit anything vital as he brought his gun round to the darkened doorway opposite. He saw a flash of a fully dressed Roy raising his arm and immediately dived to the right as a shot fizzed past his head. Then a second shot followed right after. Both gunshots were deafening in the enclosed corridor. Somewhere close by a woman screamed.

  Bishop landed in the corridor on his right shoulder, turned his body and aimed the Glock at the doorway where he’d seen Roy. But Roy wasn’t there. Bastard must have ducked back into the room.

  Keeping his arm perfectly steady, Bishop raised himself to his knees, watching for movement of any kind. He could hear muffled female sobbing from somewhere behind him, which could only be Karen Lomax.

  Bishop was painfully aware of the camping lantern on the floor directly behind him, outlining him and turning him into the perfect target. He briefly considered shooting it out, but then thought better of the idea. More darkness would only prolong things, and he needed this over with fast. Instead, he gave a long, drawn-out groan, as though he’d been hit.

  At the same time he silently edged over to the wall at his left. He kept his gun on the right-hand doorway, but watched both sides. Waiting for the first hint of movement from either doorway.

  It wasn’t long in coming.

  A semi-automatic and part of a man’s hand emerged from the right-hand doorway, the barrel pointing at the floor where Bishop had been. The gun roared once, twice, three times. All three rounds pounded into the concrete floor two feet from Bishop and he felt tiny shards of plaster pitter-pattering against his right cheek. Then hand and gun disappeared.

  Bishop didn’t fire back. Didn’t groan again. He just waited. As patient as the dead.

  After five long seconds of silence, part of a face poked out from the doorway on the right. Bishop saw a hint of blond hair, aimed, squeezed off two rapid shots.

  The face disappeared.

  Shuffling forward at a crouch, Bishop kept his gun aimed at the dark doorway and halted when he saw a blond head and part of a shoulder on the floor near the entranceway, lying half in and half out of the shadows. The blond hair was completely soaked with blood, as though it had been washed in the stuff. There was no sign of movement at all.

  But there was still Curtis to worry about. Bishop felt certain he’d scored a hit before, though. Hopefully nothing life-threatening, although the light was still on inside, which suggested the guy wasn’t in any fit state to turn it off. Bishop wasn’t about to take unnecessary chances, though. That was how fools died.

  He got to his feet and stood with his back to the wall, next to the lighted doorway. The radio had stopped too. Possibly the iPad had been damaged during the shooting. Either that or Curtis had turned it off himself. Whatever the cause, the building was now completely silent.

  ‘We don’t have to do this,’ Bishop called out. ‘I’ve got no beef with you. I just want the woman and the location Callaway picked for the exchange later. Roy’s dead, but you don’t have to be. In fact, you give me what I want and I’ll let you go. What do you say?’

  No answer. No sounds from within the room. Nothing.

  Fearing the worst, Bishop pulled the multi-tool from his pocket and extracted the small knife and raised the blade until it was level with his eyeline. It was old and dirty, but it held a reflection. Holding the knife in his right hand, Bishop moved the blade towards the doorway, angling it slightly until he could see the part of the room he wanted. He found the light first, then angled the blade downwards until he saw an unmoving humanoid shape on the floor. He held the blade steady for a few more seconds, but the shape still didn’t move.

  Pulling his hand back, Bishop pocketed the knife and lowered himself to a crouch position. Then he swung his body round the doorjamb, gun first.

  But Curtis wasn’t in any fit state to fire back at him. Nor was he about to provide him with the information he’d come for. He was lying on his back and staring blankly up at the ceiling. Bishop stood up and walked towards the body. As he got closer he saw a small pool of blood on the floor near his head, then he saw the gunshot wound above his left ear.

  ‘Shit,’ he said.

  He must have got the guy with the first shot, resulting in instant brain death. Kneeling down, he checked for a pulse, but it was pointless. Cu
rtis was now just another statistic. All this time and effort, and for nothing. Bishop picked up the lantern and took it with him to the room opposite. Roy was still where he’d left him, and still just as dead. His head was now a gory mess.

  Then he heard a faint sound from behind the other closed door on Roy’s side of the hallways. In his disappointment, he’d almost forgotten about Karen Lomax.

  So it hadn’t all been for nothing.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  Carrying the lantern, Bishop walked to the end of the hallway and opened the last door on the left and stepped inside. He moved the light around until he could make out a dirty mattress in one corner of the room. On it, Karen Lomax, wearing a short-sleeved sweater and jeans, lay in a foetal position with one arm wrapped over her head. The other arm was outstretched and cuffed to an old water pipe that protruded from the wall. Bishop saw the room’s sole window was boarded up on the outside, which meant she had to have been living in perpetual darkness all this time.

  Bishop raised the lantern for a better look at her and saw numerous bruises and cuts all over her arms. Her long hair was matted and wild.

  ‘Mrs Lomax?’ he said softly and the woman suddenly jumped at the sound of his voice. ‘You’re safe now. They can’t hurt you anymore.’

  Slowly the woman removed her arm from her head, and looked up at Bishop. He noticed the left eye was all puffed up and surrounded by dark bruising. The right side of her mouth was also heavily swollen and covered in dried blood. The poor woman looked as though she was sucking on a golf ball.

  ‘Y-you mean … you mean they’re dead?’ The words came out muffled, as though she were talking from behind a towel.