his sister
or her family any time soon.
Or anybody else from his past, for that matter. He knew two men on the east coast who’d put up theirold sergeant if asked,
but as tempting as it was to contact them, he also knew it would be the worst move he could make. He might as well leave breadcrumbs
for the cops to follow. To last any length of time after a prison escape you had to be unpredictable and the first rule, the
prime
rule, was to stay clear of known associates. But that was okay. It wouldn’t be thefirst time he’d had to operate in the
cold. Back in the day, he’d occasionally been forced to work solo in places like Somalia, Kuwait and Haiti, and this wasn’t
much different. At least he could speak the language fluently this time. Besides, he still had one lead up his sleeve.
The next stop came into view and Bishop got up and pressed the red buzzer. Whenthe doors opened, he got out and began making
his way back towards Katan. Traffic was minimal. The sun had already begun to heat the city and a faint September breeze blew
against his face as he walked. Today would be a hot one.
He crossed over Richmond and turned right into Figurea, the street before Katan. He stopped at the corner to tie his shoelacesand checked for more suspicious vehicles, but the traffic was almost non-existent. The only parked vehicles were empty ones.
He spotted the bright redtracksuit of a jogger in his late fifties approaching and lowered his head so the visor of his baseball cap hid his face.
Another man walked his dog on the opposite side of the street, totally uninterested in the worldaround him.
Bishop walked on. This area was still fairly affluent, mostly populated by young or middle-aged couples seeking a little greenery
and easy access to the city. Coming up on his left was the Robinsons’ place. It looked like all the other detached houses
on the street. Two floors. Redbrick. Veranda out front. The empty driveway told him they werestill making regular weekend
visits to their place on Long Island.
Bishop strolled across their front lawn and down the driveway at the side, opened the latch on the wooden gate at the end
and passed through. He guessed the crime rate around here was still low, which made people careless. He figured that of all
the houses on the street about seventy-fiveper cent would have their side gates unlocked. The Robinsons were no doubt happily
unaware of this ratio.
Aside from a recently built patio, their backyard hadn’t changed much. Still the same plot of grass with the same seven-foot-tall
wooden fencing all around, separated by concrete posts at six-foot intervals. And the same apple tree in the far right-handcorner. It had provided enough cover when he was a kid, it should be good enough now. The houses on either side partly overlooked
the garden and the one backing onto it, but unless somebody was actually looking out a second-floor window right now he would
be safe.
He walked over to the small tree and placed both hands atop the fence and pulled himselfup. Grimacing in pain, he brought
his right leg over, then his left, and dropped to the ground on the other side with a soft grunt.
The backyard of No. 88 was in bad shape. The grass had grown knee-high and turned brown under the summer sun. A shovel, a
rake and his old bicycle all lay rusting against the fence.
How much of a mistakehe’d made in coming here depended on how much Amy had told the cops about this place. Knowing his sister,
probably as close to nothing as she could get away with. But then Amy always took his side, no matter what. She’d never even
asked if he was innocent three years ago. She just knew.
After their parents’ deaths twenty-six years ago, this house had passeddown to both of them, the deeds held in trust until
they both reachedtwenty-one. Tom and Annabel, grandparents on their father’s side, had moved in to act as legal guardians and had stayed on
even after Bishop
or her family any time soon.
Or anybody else from his past, for that matter. He knew two men on the east coast who’d put up theirold sergeant if asked,
but as tempting as it was to contact them, he also knew it would be the worst move he could make. He might as well leave breadcrumbs
for the cops to follow. To last any length of time after a prison escape you had to be unpredictable and the first rule, the
prime
rule, was to stay clear of known associates. But that was okay. It wouldn’t be thefirst time he’d had to operate in the
cold. Back in the day, he’d occasionally been forced to work solo in places like Somalia, Kuwait and Haiti, and this wasn’t
much different. At least he could speak the language fluently this time. Besides, he still had one lead up his sleeve.
The next stop came into view and Bishop got up and pressed the red buzzer. Whenthe doors opened, he got out and began making
his way back towards Katan. Traffic was minimal. The sun had already begun to heat the city and a faint September breeze blew
against his face as he walked. Today would be a hot one.
He crossed over Richmond and turned right into Figurea, the street before Katan. He stopped at the corner to tie his shoelacesand checked for more suspicious vehicles, but the traffic was almost non-existent. The only parked vehicles were empty ones.
He spotted the bright redtracksuit of a jogger in his late fifties approaching and lowered his head so the visor of his baseball cap hid his face.
Another man walked his dog on the opposite side of the street, totally uninterested in the worldaround him.
Bishop walked on. This area was still fairly affluent, mostly populated by young or middle-aged couples seeking a little greenery
and easy access to the city. Coming up on his left was the Robinsons’ place. It looked like all the other detached houses
on the street. Two floors. Redbrick. Veranda out front. The empty driveway told him they werestill making regular weekend
visits to their place on Long Island.
Bishop strolled across their front lawn and down the driveway at the side, opened the latch on the wooden gate at the end
and passed through. He guessed the crime rate around here was still low, which made people careless. He figured that of all
the houses on the street about seventy-fiveper cent would have their side gates unlocked. The Robinsons were no doubt happily
unaware of this ratio.
Aside from a recently built patio, their backyard hadn’t changed much. Still the same plot of grass with the same seven-foot-tall
wooden fencing all around, separated by concrete posts at six-foot intervals. And the same apple tree in the far right-handcorner. It had provided enough cover when he was a kid, it should be good enough now. The houses on either side partly overlooked
the garden and the one backing onto it, but unless somebody was actually looking out a second-floor window right now he would
be safe.
He walked over to the small tree and placed both hands atop the fence and pulled himselfup. Grimacing in pain, he brought
his right leg over, then his left, and dropped to the ground on the other side with a soft grunt.
The backyard of No. 88 was in bad shape. The grass had grown knee-high and turned brown under the summer sun. A shovel, a
rake and his old bicycle all lay rusting against the fence.
How much of a mistakehe’d made in coming here depended on how much Amy had told the cops about this place. Knowing his sister,
probably as close to nothing as she could get away with. But then Amy always took his side, no matter what. She’d never even
asked if he was innocent three years ago. She just knew.
After their parents’ deaths twenty-six years ago, this house had passeddown to both of them, the deeds held in trust until
they both reachedtwenty-one. Tom and Annabel, grandparents on their father’s side, had moved in to act as legal guardians and had stayed on
even after Bishop
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