The Outsider (James Bishop 4) (8 page)

Delaney saw Bishop and said, ‘Well, you look a whole lot better than I feel. Was the couch okay?’

‘I’ve got no complaints. That coffee smells great, by the way.’

‘I just finished brewing some. Let’s go to the kitchen. I need a second helping.’

As they walked through the house, he said, ‘So, you’re on the home stretch now. The final forty-eight hours, or close to it. Nervous?’

‘Mildly apprehensive, maybe. But then, that’s my usual state. Comes with the job.’

‘Yeah, I remember the feeling clearly.’

In the kitchen, Delaney took the half-full carafe and poured fresh coffee into a spare mug, then refilled her own mug. Bishop took a sip of his and nodded his approval. It tasted as good as it smelled. Nice and fresh. Strong flavour.

‘Out of interest, who signed the rental papers for this place?’ Bishop asked. ‘One of your team?’

She nodded. ‘Sweeney. And for the other place too.’

‘And is he part of your regular protection crew?’

‘We don’t have regular crews in the Marshals Service, Bishop. This isn’t the private sector where we can choose favourites. We take what we’re given.’

‘Okay, but have you worked with Sweeney before?’

‘No. Why?’

‘Just curious,’ he said. ‘You told me to keep an eye on everybody, so that’s what I’m doing. And on that subject, Lomax was on his cell phone as I was waking up, talking in hushed tones to somebody named Karen. Is that his wife?’

‘Yeah. And she’s a real looker, too. I’m no expert on relationships, but I have to say marrying her probably wasn’t the wisest decision he’s ever made.’

‘Why? Does she fool around?’

‘I don’t think so, but Lomax just naturally assumes she does. The jealous type, you know? I do know he’s always calling her, making sure she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be. To be honest, I really can’t see the marriage lasting much longer with that kind of attitude, but what do I know? And it’s none of my business anyway.’

‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Just thought I’d mention it.’

‘I’m glad you did. I need to know anything out of the ordinary, but I’m afraid in that particular case it’s simply business as usual.’

He took another sip of his coffee and said, ‘What about you?’

‘What
about
me?’

‘No desire to settle down at all?’

She made a harsh sound through her nose. ‘The demands of this job aren’t exactly conducive to long-term relationships, Bishop. Have you got any idea what the divorce rate is for people in law enforcement?’

‘Around the seventy per cent mark, I read somewhere.’

‘And you can probably add on another ten per cent for US marshals. I rarely know where I’m going to be from one week to the next in this job, and I’ve seen too many of my colleagues’ marriages go down the crapper to want to make the same mistake they made. In my line, an undemanding casual relationship is about as much as I can handle.’

‘And are you in one now?’

She tilted her head at him. ‘Not right at this moment, no. What about you? You ready to settle down at all?’

‘Not me. I find female companionship nice for a while, and then …’ He waggled his hand from side to side.

‘And then you start getting antsy,’ she finished for him.

He shrugged. ‘It seems to get worse as I get older. I think I’m destined to die alone.’

‘We all die alone, Bishop, but let’s just hope that’s all in the far distant future. For both of us.’

‘Amen to that.’

Delaney watched him for a moment, then said, ‘You know, I’m due some vacation time after this assignment. Three weeks at least, by my reckoning. And I think I’ll need it too.’

‘You can fit in a lot in three weeks. Got any plans?’

‘A few ideas, but nothing set in stone yet. It all comes down to whether I want to spend it solo or not.’

‘Uh-huh. You got anybody in particular in mind?’

She looked at him again and gave a small shrug. ‘I’ve got a germ of an idea rolling around my head, but I’m not completely sure yet. I’ll have to give it some more thought.’

Bishop thought it best to say nothing at this stage. It was an interesting little conversation with plenty of possibilities beckoning, but there was no point in rushing anything. They took their coffees back to the living room.

Sweeney was still standing at the window, looking at something to his right. Bishop went over and made a small gap in the shutters and looked in the same direction. He saw a yellow school bus parked in the street at the front, almost at the next house along. It was one of the traditional models with the engine out in front of the windshield, and the entrance door just behind the front wheels. It was empty except for the driver. Bishop checked his watch and saw it was 07.06. A little early today.

‘School bus outside,’ he said, and Delaney came over to see for herself.

‘It was juddering some before it stopped,’ Sweeney said. ‘I think the engine died.’

Delaney looked at him. ‘Really?’

Then they all watched as the driver opened the front door of the bus and stepped down onto the sidewalk. He was dressed in the requisite bus driver’s uniform of grey pants, navy-blue jacket and navy-blue cap. He opened the hood and studied the engine.

Bishop said, ‘Is that the usual driver?’

‘It’s the same one as yesterday,’ Sweeney said. ‘Different guy before that.’

Bishop turned to Delaney. ‘You like it?’

‘Not too much.’

‘Me, neither. Well, it looks like I’m the one wearing the red shirt today.’

‘Huh? How’d you figure?’

‘I’m the extra man, aren’t I?’ Bishop went over to the couch and slipped his suit jacket on. ‘Plus I know a little about engines. I don’t mind checking it out.’

‘We’ll be watching,’ Delaney said, raising her wrist mic to her mouth. Probably to make sure everybody was up and on their toes, just in case.

Bishop headed towards the front door. Once he was out of their view, he pulled the small .38 Special from the horsehide holster in his pants pocket. When he quietly flipped open the cylinder he saw the same six .9 mm shells in there. He closed it again and slipped it back into the holster.

Hope for the best, but always prepare for the worst. The key to successful living.

He opened the front door and walked out of the house.

Bishop moved down the gravel driveway towards the bus. He could see the driver shaking his head at the engine as he pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket. The guy looked truly pissed off. Or was it just an act? That was something that needed answering, and fast.

The guy was still scrolling through his contact list when he looked up to see Bishop a few feet away. ‘Oh, hey,’ he said. ‘Can you believe it? Engine trouble.’

‘I noticed. You all right? You seem a little nervous.’

‘Nervous?’ The man tried to laugh and failed. ‘Why would I be nervous? I mean this is only my second day, and now this shit happens. The engine started stuttering about half a mile back. I kept hoping it’d kick in again, but then it just went and died on me.’ He went back to his contact list. ‘Now I gotta call my supervisor back at the depot and tell him to send out another bus. And to bring a mechanic out, too. Christ.’

‘Before you do that, why don’t I take a look first? It’s probably something simple.’

The driver brought his brows together. ‘Hey, you don’t have to—’

‘It’s no trouble,’ Bishop interrupted and came over to join him at the engine. He saw it was a typical twenty-four-valve diesel. Probably about ten or fifteen years old. Looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in a while. There was oil everywhere. ‘You want to go and try the ignition again for me?’

The driver pocketed his cell. ‘Okay, sure. Why not.’

He got in the driver’s seat and inserted the key. Bishop leaned in and heard the sound of the armature rotating as the engine tried to turn over. The driver kept at it for a few more rotations before giving up. He came back down and said, ‘Man, this bus is screwed seven ways from Sunday.’

‘Well, you can hear the starter motor’s not catching,’ Bishop said. ‘But I don’t think that’s the problem, not if the engine was stuttering before. You could have a leak in the fuel hose, maybe, or a faulty clutch, or even just a warped flywheel. Don’t you make a check of the vehicle before each run?’

‘Well, I’m supposed to, but I guess I forgot today.’

‘Have you got your toolkit handy?’

‘Uh, I don’t think we got one.’

‘You kidding me? All buses have toolboxes somewhere for emergencies. It’s regulations. Let’s go check the luggage bay, there’s bound to be one there.’ Bishop didn’t know the first thing about city regulations for school buses. He just wanted to check the hold. His internal radar had been pinging since the bus had come to a halt outside the house and one way or the other he wanted to make it stop.

Bishop kept his left hand in his pocket as they walked back along the side of the bus facing the house. The driver knelt down and used a special key to open up the outer flange near the rear. Bishop took a look inside the compartment. It was over six feet long. Easily room for two people in there, but this one was empty. Except further in, Bishop spotted a faded red plastic carrying case lying on a dirty rag.
How about that?

He reached in and pulled the case out. It was heavy. Metallic items rattled around inside. ‘Your toolkit,’ he said, handing it to the driver.

Back at the front Bishop said, ‘Let me try the engine one more time. You got the keys?’

‘Hey, I don’t know …’

‘Don’t worry, you’ll get them back.’ The driver chewed his lip and handed them over grudgingly. ‘Tell me what you hear,’ Bishop said.

Bishop got in the driver’s seat. He put the key in the ignition and turned it clockwise. The starter motor tried its best to cough into life again. With the driver’s concentration elsewhere, Bishop kept his grip on the key and ducked down to look to the rear of the bus, checking under the rest of the seats. But there was nobody hiding back there either. The breakdown seemed legitimate enough, but Bishop knew there were endless ways to sabotage an engine without leaving a trace.

Because something was off here. He was sure of it.

He removed the key and stood up, still looking towards the rear. He could see a floor panel about three-quarters of the way down the centre aisle. Maybe that was worth a check.

Bishop heard movement behind him as the driver came on board. ‘Hey, what’s up?’ he asked Bishop. ‘You lose something?’

‘No, I just—’ Bishop began, and halted in his tracks. Through the rear windshield, he saw the figure of a mailman moving in their direction, pushing a standard USPS handcart. Bishop looked at his watch and saw it was only 07.16. The guy was a whole hour too early. And Delaney had said he didn’t deviate.

Bishop was getting that cold feeling at the core of his gut. He put his hand in his pocket and clasped the .38. He heard the driver coming down the aisle behind him. When he figured the guy was less than a foot away, Bishop turned, pulled the gun out and stuck the two-inch barrel in the man’s gut. He grabbed the guy’s lapel and pulled him round so he could still track the mailman’s progress.

‘How many?’ Bishop whispered into his face.

‘What?’ the driver said, his eyes wild. He glanced down at the gun, then back up. ‘What are you—’

‘I already made the fake mailman back there. Where are the rest? You got more hiding under the bus, or what? Talk.’

‘Hey, man, I don’t know who you think I—’

Bishop pulled back the hammer and the guy stopped. ‘Gut shots are the worst, believe me. Keep it up and you’ll find out why. Now answer me. Where are the rest?’

Instead of answering, the driver darted a look past Bishop’s shoulder, then suddenly dropped to the floor with both hands over his head. Out the front windshield Bishop saw a white panel van at the intersection fifty yards away. It had an
ADN COURIERS
logo on the side and was turning into this street.

A courier delivery at a quarter past seven in the morning? That’d be a first. He heard the van’s engine rise in pitch as the driver stepped hard on the gas.

No time to check the floor panel now. He needed to get back to the house, right this second.

As he turned, the guy on the floor suddenly grabbed at his right ankle and tried to pull him off-balance. Bishop pulled his free leg back and kicked him in the temple. Hard. The man’s body immediately went limp. Bishop ran to the front of the bus and leaped out onto the sidewalk.

‘
It’s a hit!
’ he shouted, and began sprinting towards the house.

Out the corner of his eye, he saw the mailman to his right pull a large automatic assault rifle from one of his satchels. Bishop aimed the .38 in his general direction and fired off two shots as he ran, knowing both had gone well wide.

Behind him, he also heard a sharp slamming noise coming from inside the bus, quickly followed by windows being smashed. That goddamn floor panel. He’d been right. How many men had been hiding in there? Two? Three?

There was the screeching of tyres to his left as the courier van mounted the kerb, then quickly overtook him down the driveway. The rear doors were swinging open and he saw at least three heavily armed men sitting inside, steadying themselves against the van’s movements. The van was making for the wide passageway at the side of the house, towards Strickland’s location at the rear. Making sure all sides were covered.

Ahead of Bishop, only ten feet away, the front door was already half-open. Delaney stood there, Glock raised in her right hand.

Then she began firing over Bishop’s head as the sound of automatic gunfire suddenly erupted from behind him.

Bishop just kept running, trusting Delaney’s aim. She continued giving him cover, edging back from the doorway as she emptied a magazine at whatever was behind him. He waited for the inevitable bullets in the back, but none came. As he got closer, a neat row of jagged holes suddenly appeared in the doorframe just above his head. More rounds punched into the wall next to the door.