The Wrong Man Page 4

  ‘Sore, but satisfied,’ he said. ‘Hey, remind me to tell you about it sometime.’

  Bill Carmody’s Texas twang became more pronounced. ‘You got me curious now, son. We got ourselves some stuff to catch up on.’

  Cook grinned down at the comatose form on the bed. ‘Give you something to look forward to an hour from now.’

  ‘Juicy, huh?’

  ‘Maybe more than you can handle.’

  Carmody chuckled. ‘Okay, son. Don’t let me down now.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Cook said and put the radio back in his pocket.

  Man, he was shattered. He’d picked up a babe called Leona at a bar in Elmshire and finally managed to break free of her a couple of hours before his shift. That girl had definitely shown him a trick or two. Although she hadn’t been as enthusiastic about the facial hair. Maybe he’d shave off the goatee and surprise her next time he saw her.

  He bent down to check the sleeping figure’s pulse and then raised the man’s sole eyelid, flashing his penlight at the pupil. Still dilated. Still no reaction. Too bad, Alvin Farrell.

  Alvin had been brought in two weeks before with a cracked skull and a hole where his left eye used to be. As usual, Cook hadn’t bothered to check his med sheet and put him straight on morphine. It was only when the patient failed to wake up after three days that he noticed the hand-written notation at the bottom of the allergies section: Possibility of relapse if opium-based sedatives introduced into patient’s system. He figured a coma qualified as a relapse.

  Leona might have been troubled to learn of two similar incidents involving her new lover over the past year. Alvin could make it three if he didn’t wake soon.

  Cook shrugged. Shit happened. At least in the prison system the repercussions were minimal. Almost non-existent, in fact. The outside world forgot these dregs existed as soon as they arrived, so why lose sleep over the one or two who got lost along the way? Still smiling, he patted the patient on the shoulder and moved towards the man in the other bed.

  James Bishop was still in the same position as when he’d checked an hour before. Not that he would have been able to move much even if he wanted. His right wrist was cuffed to the bed railing on Cook’s orders. Guy was some kind of badass ex-bodyguard in for life on a triple murder charge, and Cook thought it best to take precautions. ‘Better safe than sorry’ was a good rule to live by in here.

  Somebody had really gone to town on Bishop. The guards had brought him in last night, bloody and unconscious with severe bruising to the body. His stomach resembled a slab of week-old raw meat. There was probably internal haemorrhaging but Cook wasn’t ready to cut him open and investigate just yet. Past experience had made him a little nervous about that sort of thing. He’d given the guy some painkillers and was content to let nature take its course for the time being. Bishop would either regain consciousness or he wouldn’t. Then he’d decide.

  Cook studied the man’s features. He seemed about the same age as himself. Thirty-three, maybe a couple of years older, but his face had developed lines and character that Cook’s lacked. His gaze travelled down to Bishop’s throat. That was odd. He could swear Bishop had come in with a fat, polished Buddha around his neck. Previously, patients would only be admitted to the infirmary building once they’d been relieved of all personal items. But thanks to pressure from the prison’s Muslim population, non-metallic religious totems were now permitted. Still, maybe one of the guards had liked the look of it and taken it for himself. It wouldn’t be the first time. Spend enough time with thieves, he thought.

  Cook started to feel uncomfortable. He couldn’t shake the feeling Bishop was watching him through closed eyelids. The physical similarities were beginning to unsettle him, too. As he turned for the door, he decided that maybe he would shave his goatee off when he got home.

  He’d only taken three steps when he heard the sound of metal on metal and then an arm clamped itself around his neck and pulled him to the floor.

  TEN

  ‘Be still, doc,’ Bishop said as he gripped the man’s throat and took the key chain from his hand. ‘All I want to know is when the truck’s arriving.’

  ‘Truck?’

  Bishop tightened his grip against Cook’s weak struggles, ignoring the dull pain in his stomach. It seemed the good doctor here had been lax with the painkillers. ‘Brendan, you see Alvin over there?’

  Cook nodded, unable to speak.

  ‘I hear all it took was a pencil.’ He put the keys down, pulled a pen from Cook’s top pocket and waved it in front of the doctor’s bulging eyes. ‘Get the idea? Now the truck bringing new medical equipment. Tell me what time it’s due.’

  Cook’s left eyelid began to twitch. ‘Three o’clock. Please don’t.’

  ‘Good.’ He replaced the pen and searched the man’s pockets, pulling out a sleek Cobra walkie-talkie from the coat and placing it on the floor along with the man’s Motorola cell phone.

  He felt a flare in his side and silently thanked the Three Bears. He knew the warden didn’t like to take chances and had figured he’d lock this whole section down in readiness for the delivery truck’s arrival. Which meant anything less than severe internal trauma would have gotten Bishop ejected back to his cell along with all the other patients who could walk. And for this to work he needed to be right here in the hospital ward. At least he’d gotten his money’s worth, even if they’d thought him crazy when he’d hired them a fortnight ago. Maybe he’d send them a bonus if he ever got out of here; the Aryans’ counter-offer must have been hard to resist.

  Picking the lock on the cuffs hadn’t taken him long. Embedded inside the stone Buddha icon had been a small metal shaft, and after some serious jiggling he’d finally popped the cuff open. He’d practised a few times and then relocked them so Cook wouldn’t get suspicious. When the doctor was checking on Alvin, Bishop simply freed himself again and waited.

  ‘You got an itemized invoice to check against the delivery, Brendan?’ he asked.

  ‘In my office upstairs.’

  ‘Yeah? Which one?’

  ‘Room 1–12.’

  Still clutching Cook’s neck, Bishop went through the man’s wallet. Inside he found a driver’s licence, two credit cards, an ID card from Alexford Medical, an expired Blockbuster membership card and some cash. Three twenties, four tens, and six singles. And a strip of unused rubbers in the zipped section.

  He released the medic and stood up. Cook stayed where he was and massaged his neck.

  ‘Up and at ’em, Brendan,’ Bishop said. ‘It’s my turn to play doctor. Start with the coat and shoes.’

  Still rubbing his throat, Cook pushed himself up. He struggled out of the white coat and slowly started to untie his shoelaces. Took them off and threw them to Bishop. Then he shakily unzipped his pants and slipped them off.

  Bishop pulled his white hospital gown over his head, picked up the pants Cook slid over and put them on. They were short in the leg and baggy at the waist so he tightened the leather belt. Then he reached down for the bills and stuffed them in one of the pockets. He felt as though he’d earned it. Once Cook finished taking off his shirt and tie, he just stood there shivering in his briefs until Bishop threw him the gown.

  As Bishop finished dressing he nodded at the walkie-talkie. ‘How often do you have to check in on that thing?’

  ‘Every hour on the hour.’

  Bishop pulled on Cook’s white coat and said, ‘I’ll need that shiny watch, too, then.’ Cook huffed and undid the strap and tossed it over. ‘You know what I’ll do to you if you’re lying,’ Bishop said, attaching it to his wrist.

  ‘I’m not stupid.’

  ‘No, just incompetent,’ Bishop said. ‘So it’s Carmody on duty tonight?’ He’d recognized the Texas drawl coming through the walkie-talkie earlier.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And he likes to hear about your lady friends, huh?’

  ‘He’ll realize you’re not me.’

  ‘He won’t be able to t
ell the difference,’ Bishop said in a pretty good imitation of Cook’s whine. Pleased with the result, he added in his own voice, ‘Want me to bring out the pen again?’

  Cook shook his head and sighed. ‘Yeah, he likes to know about my latest pick-ups.’

  ‘So where’d you go last night?’

  ‘707, on Elmshire.’

  ‘Yeah, I know it,’ Bishop lied. ‘And what was the young lady’s name at the 707?’

  Cook stood there and considered his options. Then he said, ‘Girl called Leona. She’s got a thing for doctors.’

  ‘I bet she has. See what you can remember when—’ Bishop glanced over Cook’s shoulder at the doorway. ‘You hear something?’

  As Cook turned to look, Bishop slammed his elbow into the side of his head. The doctor grunted once as he tripped over his own feet and slumped to the floor in a heap.

  Bishop looked down at the unconscious man. ‘Guess I was mistaken.’

  ELEVEN

  Bishop withdrew the empty syringe from Cook’s arm and dropped it in his side pocket. As he checked the man’s pulse, he felt a glimmer of satisfaction. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time. So far, everything was progressing as planned.

  With the high propofol dosage he’d just been given, Cook would be out for the next four hours, at least. Bishop checked the time on his fancy new Citizen ProMaster. 02.43. Quarter of an hour.

  He raised Cook’s head from the pillow and pulled free the rubber band that held his hair in place. As he entwined it in his own, he double-checked the cuffs that held one hand to the railings. He’d attached Cook’s other wrist to the bed with duct tape he’d found in the supply room, pulling the stiff white hospital sheet over the arm in case anyone glanced at the bed. He made sure it was still good and tight.

  He looked briefly at the still unconscious Alvin, then left the room and locked the door with the third key he tried.

  Two rows of twelve beds lay stretched out before him. Only three held patients and they weren’t moving much. To his left he could see the barred gate and the electronically monitored corridor. Beyond that, another barred gate and another corridor. And then another. Every time a gate opened an electronic signal was transmitted to the surveillance room in the main building and a short, sharp alarm would go off. Like an over-sized rat maze, until you reached the front entrance to the building.

  The night duty guard, Carmody, would now be sitting in his cubbyhole just outside the final corridor watching video feeds as Cook made his rounds. Bishop could only hope his likeness to Cook was good enough for closed-circuit TV. Even so, he still made sure his head was down as he passed through the ward.

  To the left of the exit was another barred gate in front of a short hallway. It held no surprises as Bishop had already unlocked it to get the propofol. He’d also taken a minute to check the medical equipment room and the large storeroom in back. In the opposite corner of the ward, a steel door led to the stairs to the offices above. Bishop kept his walk casual and his head down as he approached it in full view of the three cameras covering the room. He was grateful for the minimal lighting.

  Playing the role of Cook was a refreshing change after three years of monotony. All that planning and waiting was beginning to pay off. If the stakes weren’t so high, he’d probably be enjoying this. But he held himself in check. There was still plenty more to do.

  This was only his second visit to the infirmary but he remembered everything perfectly. The first was less than a year into his term when he and seven others had been admitted for acute food poisoning. As he lay in the drab ward, Bishop had noted the substandard conditions and the lack of proper medical equipment. And an idea had hit him. As his body recovered, his mind went into overdrive. It memorized every detail, like kids do before their SATs, and he’d returned to his cell the next day with a new kind of hunger. One that, after three weeks of poring through law books, resulted in his filing a class action suit against Greenacres for inadequate hospital conditions and supplies. At the same time, Bishop also began growing his hair long, so he’d be able to match it to Cook’s when the time came. So far, it seemed to be working.

  Bishop took the key chain from his pocket as he drew near the steel door. It held fourteen keys, seven of which he had yet to identify: five Yales that looked like office keys and two larger ones. Aware of the cameras watching him, he inserted one of the larger ones into the lock and turned it clockwise. Fifty–fifty chance of success. To allow himself room for error he pretended to check the soles on his shoes as he turned it.

  The lock clicked and the door opened.

  Ahead of him a thin hallway led to some concrete steps with a camera at the turn. As he climbed the stairs he pretended to wipe dust off his trousers, keeping his face down and his pace slow. At the top was a corridor lined with doors and lit by two dull fluorescent tubes.

  The door opposite said 1-7. Bishop stepped out and turned right with his head lowered, stroking his beard. He stopped at the door which read 1-12 and tried one of the Yale keys in the lock. Nothing happened. He picked another key and tried again. The tumblers moved.

  Inside the room Bishop pressed the light switch and took in Cook’s small office area. One long barred window overlooked a poky room with three large file cabinets along the opposite wall. On the desk was a PC long past its sell-by date, a printer and two trays full of paperwork. He sat down and pressed the on switch for the PC.

  As it warmed up he opened each of the drawers and found a flathead screwdriver tucked away at the back of the last one. Thanks, Brendan. In Bishop’s situation you didn’t ignore gifts like that and he placed it in his coat pocket. In the same drawer, he then hid the used syringe, the propofol ampule, and Cook’s deactivated cell phone.

  Bishop riffled through the papers in the first tray. Halfway down the second tray he found invoice sheets from Medax Medical Supplies in New Jersey. The covering letter was on the company letterhead, but the other nine stapled sheets weren’t. Bishop allowed himself a small smile. He’d gotten this far through planning. But planning, no matter how intricate, often relied on gifts of opportunity. Finding the itemized invoice on plain paper was going to make things that much easier.

  The screen lit up without a password prompt and Bishop found the Word icon and opened it up. He detached the staple from the corner of the sheets and read through each one. Page nine was the one he wanted and he placed it on top.

  Turning back to the monitor, he opened up a new document and started typing.

  TWELVE

  ‘Still sore, doc?’

  The voice snapped Bishop’s mind back into focus. He checked the diver’s watch before picking up the walkie-talkie. 03.05. He took a breath and closed his eyes. The voice was William Carmody’s. No, not William. Bill. But Bishop didn’t know what Cook was sore about. Expect the unexpected, like always. And then deal with it.

  He opened his eyes and pressed the transmit button. ‘Hey, Bill,’ he said in his new whiny voice. ‘Sore?’ he prompted.

  ‘Right.’

  That was a big help. So two possible meanings. But thinking about it, only one, really. ‘What can I say?’ he said. ‘She was a wolverine.’

  Carmody laughed. ‘Must have been if she’s got you frazzled. That’s twice I’ve had to call first. So what was her name, son? Come on, give up some details.’

  What had Cook said? ‘Leona. About five-three. Ninety, ninety-five pounds. Short, dark hair and the cutest ass you ever saw.’

  ‘Nice. From that place you like on Elmshire? What’s it called?’

  ‘Right. The 707. You not been yet, old man?’

  ‘You’re forgetting we ain’t all young, free and single, doc. Hey, you sound funny.’

  If only you knew, Bishop thought. ‘That would be the sleep deprivation. I’m about dead on my feet after last night’s activities.’ Bishop paused. ‘Hey, what about the delivery truck? Is it still on schedule?’

  Carmody gave a chuckle. ‘I’ll let you know when it arrives, and don’t c
hange the subject. Keep going.’

  Bishop sighed and pressed transmit again. Carmody was buying it but he wasn’t clear yet. ‘Well, she had two friends with her and any one of them would have made you seriously question your marriage vows.’ Laughter at the other end. ‘But I knew which one I—’ He stopped when he heard the distant sound of a phone ringing.

  ‘Pause button, doc,’ Carmody said.

  Bishop waited. Just looked at the cursor flashing on the screen for two minutes. Then three. He scanned the previous few lines of text onscreen then continued typing for several more minutes.

  The radio squawked. ‘Game on, doc. Truck’s coming through the front gates now with Richards riding shotgun to direct him to the rear entrance. You coming down?’

  That definitely wouldn’t be a good idea. Not yet, anyway. He thought for a second and picked up the radio. ‘He’ll be here for at least an hour unloading, won’t he? Can you escort him to the storeroom for the first couple of trips, Bill? After that, he’ll know the way and you can just let him in and out. There are only three inmates left on the main floor and they’re harmless.’

  Carmody’s voice hardened. ‘You lose the use of your legs all of a sudden?’

  ‘You should always listen to your doctor, Bill. Seriously, Alexford Medical are on my ass to get a month’s worth of paperwork finished by tomorrow, but I’ll be down in thirty to check on what he’s brought in so far. Make sure everything’s kosher.’

  Silence from the radio. ‘Tell you what,’ Bishop continued, ‘I’ve got a little movie of Leona on my cell that’ll make you blush. It was going to be just for me, but I’d be glad to share it when I clock off at six. Interested?’

  After a five second gap, Carmody said, ‘What’s on it?’