The Outsider (James Bishop 4) (18 page)

Bishop went over and opened the driver’s door and looked inside. It had a manual transmission, which was fine, but the ignition slot was empty. Well, there were other ways to start these old vehicles. Unfortunately, they were also noisy.

He was about to close the door when he frowned at the sun visor. He used a finger to flip it open and something metallic fell out and jangled as it hit the floor. Bishop smiled and picked up the keys. There were two of them, attached to a basic key ring. He inserted the ignition key and turned it a quarter-rotation, then flipped the switch for the headlights. The full beams suddenly flashed against the barn doors, lighting up the whole room. Excellent.

Turning the lights off, he exited the barn and made his way back to Strickland using the same route as before. ‘There’s an old pick-up in there,’ he said, ‘along with the keys. The headlights work, so it looks like it’s been used recently.’

‘Sounds like a second vehicle, then,’ Strickland said. ‘They’re probably out somewhere right now in the good one.’

‘Possibly. But I still don’t want to risk starting the engine so close to the house.’

‘So how do we play this?’

‘I let out the handbrake and we push it out of the barn. Once we’re through the gate, the driveway slopes down a little so I just need a start. Then you come back, slide the barn door shut as quietly as possible and follow me and jump in.’

Strickland nodded and said, ‘Lead the way.’

Bishop took the same route as before with Strickland following close behind. They stopped when they reached the entrance gate and pushed it open all the way. Once inside the barn, Strickland dropped the knapsack into the cab while Bishop slid the barn door a little further along until there was a five-foot gap. Then he reached in the driver’s door and let out the handbrake.

‘Okay, let’s do it,’ he said. With one hand on the steering wheel, Bishop braced himself against the doorframe and pushed while Strickland did the same at the back. As the car began to move forward Bishop moved the steering wheel until the vehicle was pointed at the gap. Once they were through, he turned the wheel left and aimed for the open gate twenty feet away. After a few more seconds of effort they had a little momentum going and he got in the driver’s seat and gently closed the door. The vehicle was moving at about three or four miles an hour when Strickland let go of the rear. In the rear-view, Bishop saw him run back to the barn. No sign of anybody else back at the house.

Bishop passed through the gate and reached the gradient and got the vehicle up to six or seven. The driveway was long and bumpy, but fairly straight and tree-lined on both sides. When he thought he’d covered enough distance, Bishop turned the key and stepped on the gas. The engine coughed once, twice, then it caught and he shoved the gearstick into second. The diesel engine was louder than he’d expected, but it couldn’t be helped. He kept going for another twenty yards, then the landscape levelled out and he pressed down on the brakes. They felt a lot looser than he liked, but the vehicle eventually came to a stop. He left the engine running. Thirty or forty feet ahead he could see the driveway connected with another dirt track that turned off at a right angle. He looked at the dial and saw the tank was about three-quarters full. Not perfect, but better than nothing.

Strickland appeared a few seconds later and jumped in.

‘Let’s get the hell out of here,’ he said. He sounded out of breath already.

‘You see somebody?’

‘No, but somebody might have seen me. I was shutting the barn door when I thought I saw one of the drapes moving back at the main house.’

‘Wonderful.’ Bishop said. He put the gear into first again and stepped on the gas.

The truck’s suspension was almost non-existent. Every rut they drove over felt like a crater and Bishop’s lower back starting aching almost immediately. The excuse for a road went on for about another mile before it connected up to another dirt track, although this one was a lot smoother, with fewer potholes. Clearly it was used a little more regularly. They passed a couple more isolated farmhouses along the way, and then the road turned into a bridge that took them across the river Bishop had spotted earlier. Once they were across that, it was another half-mile before they reached an intersection that connected to a two-lane highway.

‘Finally,’ Strickland said. ‘Never thought I’d be glad to see asphalt again.’

Bishop paused at the junction and saw a single car approaching from the left, heading north. Once it sped by Bishop pulled out and headed off in the opposite direction. As he stepped on the gas he pushed the gearstick into third for the first time and the engine voiced its displeasure with a loud rattling sound. Fourth was a little quieter, but it was clear the Chevy’s best days were far in the past. At fifty miles per hour the engine sounded like it was straining badly, and Bishop knew he’d be lucky to get sixty out of the thing.

At the next intersection he turned left. Soon, they passed a sign that said they were now on Highway 40 and about to enter the town of Granby, population 1,800. Bishop just hoped nobody would recognize this truck, what with that damn steel plate on the side. Still, there wasn’t much he could do about it now.

They drove on. Traffic was very light for a major highway. This part of Colorado wasn’t exactly densely populated, which had its pluses and minuses as far as Bishop was concerned. Over the next mile or so they passed another gas station, some residences, a scattering of business premises and warehouses, and a small row of storefronts. Bishop noticed a black and white parked in a bay in front of a tools and supplies store. There didn’t seem to be anybody inside it. Then they passed a hotel, and after that it was nothing but more farmland on both sides.

The next few miles proved uneventful. Beautiful mountain country all around, but Bishop wasn’t in the mood to appreciate it. He was too busy trying to recall the layout of this part of the country from his close protection days. He’d spent a period of time in Colorado on a job and, like always, had made sure he had a general understanding of the main routes between the cities. Most of it was still stored away in the back of his brain somewhere. He had a general feeling the highway they were on would take them through the mountains before eventually joining up with the I-70, and from there to the main cities like Denver and Broomfield to the east, which he wanted to avoid, and smaller municipalities like Boulder, Colorado Springs or Castle Rock. Along with a host of others whose names escaped him.

After another fifteen miles or so, Bishop began to see signs for a town called Cramer located just up ahead, along with a couple of vacation lodges and something called the Cramer Hill Shopping Center. They were passing through a small unnamed township when Bishop looked in the rear-view and almost wished he hadn’t. About two hundred feet back, a black and white cruiser was joining the highway from a side road. And heading in the same direction as them. Bishop could see two silhouettes inside the cruiser.

‘Check your wing mirror,’ he said.

Strickland bent his head and saw it immediately. ‘Oh, shit. Has he seen us?’

‘Not sure. I don’t see any flashing lights.’

‘Yet.’

Bishop said nothing. It all depended on whether the owner really did see Strickland back at the house. If he did, it was a cinch he or she called the cops, which meant the moment this one spotted the steel plate on the side they could be in real trouble.

He kept going. It was all he could do. There were no more turn-offs ahead, just straight highway. He looked down at the dial and saw they were still doing just over fifty-five. The engine was making a hell of a noise, but holding fairly steady. If he needed to, he felt he could possibly get another five miles an hour out of it. For all the good it would do. Even a go-cart would be more than a match for them at this point.

‘Doesn’t look like he’s in any hurry,’ Strickland said, still watching his mirror.

Bishop checked the rear-view again and saw he was right. The black and white was falling back. Other cars were moving into the left-hand lane to overtake. The cop was at least three hundred feet behind them now. And fading.

Soon they lost sight of the cop, but Bishop wasn’t about to start counting his chickens yet. Another mile went by. He was watching the rear-view as much as the road ahead.

Then behind them, in the distance, he saw flashing red and blue lights.

Strickland glanced in the wing mirror and said, ‘I knew things were going too smoothly. You think it’s us he wants?’

‘I’m not waiting around to find out,’ Bishop said, and stepped on the gas.

Whatever the cop was responding to could be entirely unrelated to them, but he had to assume the worst. Somehow Bishop got the vehicle up to sixty, but the steering wheel started vibrating badly and he had to fight to keep the vehicle in a straight line. Coming up on the right was a small turn-off, but he ignored it and kept going. He was thinking of that sign they’d passed and hoped the shopping centre wasn’t too far away. The land round here was pretty flat, though, and he could clearly see a small town up ahead. It had to be Cramer. Industrial buildings started flashing by on their right and road signs warned drivers to start reducing their speed.

Bishop kept them at sixty. He kept his foot pressed to the floor, hoping to get more out of it, but the needle was stuck. And now it wasn’t just the steering wheel that was shaking, but the whole damn truck. The thing felt like it could fall apart at any moment.

There was a Ford something in front of them, doing forty. Bishop steered round it and kept on going, the Chevy’s engine screaming like a banshee. He caught a quick flash of the police cruiser gaining in the rear-view, but all his attention was focused on the road ahead of them. They were passing through the main part of town now, if you could call it that. Some kind of eatery over there on the right. To the left was a ski lodge. Traffic was still fairly light, which was bad. He would have preferred more vehicles to slow the cop’s progress. He steered them round another car. The driver angrily beeped his horn as he passed.

Then they were past the lodge and Bishop saw a large parking lot coming up on the left. And further back was the shopping centre. It wasn’t much. A large ALCO anchor store in the middle with a long line of much smaller stores on either side, maybe a dozen in all. And coming up directly ahead was a large four-way intersection. A few cars were waiting for the lights to turn green.

‘They’re gaining,’ Strickland said, looking out the back.

Bishop ignored the red lights at the intersection and tapped the brakes, changing down to third as he veered round a couple of waiting vehicles. The engine was still screaming. He hung a left into the winding access road to the shopping centre and kept going. He could see the parking lot to his right was barely a quarter full. Maybe seventy or eighty vehicles. And it was coming up to five thirty. He didn’t know what the opening times were like around here, but they’d have to be closing up pretty soon. That might work for them.

Strickland faced front. ‘What the hell are you doing? This is a dead end.’

‘We can’t outrun them in this thing,’ Bishop said. They were almost at the parking lot. ‘They don’t know what we look like yet so we make that work for us. Soon as we park this thing we’ll split up and lose ourselves amongst all the other customers.’

‘And then what?’

‘I’m still working on it. Hold on.’

Bishop yanked the wheel to the right and sped into the lot entrance, narrowly avoiding an exiting vehicle coming the other way. He kept going, passing some of the smaller stores on their left. A few shoppers walking with bags or trolleys watched them as they sped past.

‘Where are they now?’ Bishop asked.

Strickland looked behind. ‘They just took the turn.’

Bishop was watching the aisles, looking for spaces near the front. The cruiser should be far enough away that they wouldn’t be able see where he parked, not straight away. But he still needed a space. And fast. There. There was one at the head of an aisle just past the ALCO store. He slowed down to twenty, turned into the aisle and then carefully slotted the pick-up into the space and turned off the engine. The muffler began ticking as it cooled.

‘Head for the ALCO store,’ Bishop said. ‘Try and act casual, like you’re just off to do some weekend grocery shopping. I’ll take one of the smaller stores. Once I’ve come up with something I’ll call you on the cell. Try not to look like a fugitive.’

Strickland stared back at him.

‘Get
going
,’ Bishop said, and got out. He heard Strickland doing the same. He studied the reflections in the store windows to the left. The cruiser was taking the same route as them, but moving a lot slower. Evidently they hadn’t spotted them yet.

Bishop closed the door and ducked down, moving between the vehicles in front until he emerged in the next aisle along. He stood up and saw Strickland had joined a family of four also making for ALCO. He was walking confidently alongside them, as though he belonged. Good. It also meant the anchor store opened late. But what about the other stores?

As Bishop crossed the road he stared at the approaching cruiser fifty feet away, just like everybody else was doing. This was exciting stuff for a small town. He could see the driver slowing at each aisle while his partner checked the parked vehicles. They’d spot it any moment now. Bishop turned away and looked in the store windows as he walked. The first one, a travel shop, was closed. The next one, a Taco Bell, was open for business, but looked empty. He moved on to a Radio Shack, also open. Then a cell phone store with a few customers inside. He moved to the next shop along and stopped.

The store was smaller and narrower than the others. The sign above, written in a tasteful freehand script, said
Clea Arts & Crafts
. The items in the window were a mixture of artist’s materials, ornaments for the home and general knick-knacks. Most of the items looked handmade. The sign behind the door read
OPEN
.