Authors: Jason Dean
Standing with his back to the convenience store, the patrolman flinched when the barrel of the Beretta pressed against his
right kidney, but didn’t turn around or move his hands from the car roof.
‘That’s right,’ Bishop said, ‘we’re all friends here. No sudden moves. You wouldn’t believe how nervous I get.’
‘I believe you,’ the cop said.
‘That’s a promising start. Hold that thought.’
A sudden spasm in Bishop’s stomach had jerked him awake at 20.55. He’d allowed the pain to sit with him for a while, the throbbing
concentrating his mind, and then he’d forced himself up. Now, though, he was glad he had. Were it not for the overriding compulsion
to buy more
painkillers he’d still be in the Ambassador. Instead, deciding the less Marks knew of his comings and goings the
better, he had grabbed his jacket and gun and left the hotel via the fire exit out back, circling round to reach the all-night
store across the street. He’d just paid for the Advil, along with a Coke and a two-day-old hot dog heated up in the store
microwave,
when the patrol car came to a stop outside.
Bishop had taken a large bite of the hot dog as he approached the window and assessed the situation outside. He hadn’t seen
or heard them go in, but the Chevy was the same one he’d seen on the news this morning. Which meant Marshals. With the two
cops stationed across the street and the two on this side, he figured
two more would take the rear. Maybe one or two on the
roof. Another one in the lobby. Delaney and her deputies would no doubt handle room 308 themselves. Bishop looked left and
right. He couldn’t see any black-and-whites blocking the ends of the street yet, but more cops would come. They always did.
Valuable seconds ticked by as he waited for the driver on
the other side of the window to move away from his car and allow
him to exit the store and disappear from all their lives without any fuss. But the cop didn’t move.
And Bishop couldn’t stay here. As soon as they found his room empty they’d lock the perimeter down for witnesses. And more
back-up could arrive at any moment. He had to leave. Immediately.
‘Okay,’ he told the cop, ‘I’m gonna reach down for your gun and eject the shells, then place it back in your holster. Just
stay still and imagine you’re on a tightrope a thousand feet up. The slightest wrong move and you fall. We both will.’
‘I understand.’
Glancing around, Bishop saw that nobody was interested in them. Two hundred
yards to his left, the cop’s partner was in front
of one of the bars arguing with three patrons who evidently wanted to stay and watch the show. The other two standing guard
across the street were embroiled in their own efforts to keep the growing band of spectators back. Bishop smiled. You just
had to love New York.
Keeping pressure on the Beretta
in the cop’s back, Bishop used his left hand to unclip the safety clasp on the man’s holster,
pull the .357 out and flip the chamber open in less than two seconds. He shook the gun a couple of times until all six shells
fell into the gutter. Then he flipped the chamber home and replaced it in the holster. Bishop still needed this guy and allowing
him some semblance of
dignity by not taking his weapon would make him less likely to do something stupid.
‘That’s real good,’ he said. ‘We’re taking each other seriously. What’s gonna happen now is we’re both gonna get in your cruiser
and drive away from here.’
‘The world and his old lady’s looking for you, Bishop,’ the cop said. ‘You won’t last a minute.’
‘Maybe a minute’s all I need. What’s your name, patrolman?’
‘Prior. Cliff Prior.’
‘Where are your car keys, Cliff?’
‘Left jacket pocket.’
Bishop increased the pressure on the Beretta as he reached round with his left hand and pulled the keys out. He also unlatched
the cuffs from the cop’s belt and put them in his own pocket.
‘Okay, Cliff,’ he said, ‘bring your arms down slowly from the
roof and open the door.’
The cop did as he was told and pulled the door ajar. No interior lights came on, as per regulations.
‘On three, get in and move quickly over to the driver’s seat with your hands on the wheel at ten and two. I’ll be right behind
you. Got it?’
‘Yeah,’ Prior said. ‘I got it.’
‘Good. Here we go. One. Two. Three.’
Prior ducked into the car and clambered across to the driver’s seat, his legs just avoiding the bulky radio equipment and
bracketed laptop. Bishop slid into the passenger seat and closed the door behind him. He motioned with his gun for Prior to
put his hands on the wheel.
As the cop complied, Bishop lowered himself down in the seat.
He turned the radios off and dropped the keys onto the cop’s lap as Prior looked back at him. He was in his mid-twenties,
clean-shaven, with deep acne scars. No longer a rookie but hardly a veteran. His eyebrows slanted downwards and met above
his nose in a permanent V of disapproval. The small
eyes burned into Bishop, no doubt committing his face to memory while
his mind weighed the options before him. Experience would be telling him he’d probably get through this if he just followed
orders.
‘Start her up and drive straight ahead,’ Bishop said. ‘And no screeching of tyres or stalling the engine. You’re too smart
for that and I’m too fragile.’
Prior inserted the key in the ignition and turned it clockwise. The engine came to life immediately. ‘Then what?’
‘Focus on the present. Drive.’
The policeman put the car in gear and pressed his foot lightly down on the gas. The vehicle moved off slowly. Bishop felt
it gain speed, and when he thought enough distance had been covered he
raised himself up on the seat and looked through the
windshield. They were approaching a crossroads and a red light.
‘Take a left,’ said Bishop. ‘Screw the red light. You’re a cop.’
Prior’s walkie-talkie started chattering as he looked left, waiting for a gap in the oncoming traffic.
‘Call in,’ Bishop said. ‘Say you received a possible
sighting on Ruscoe Street and you’re checking it out. No more than that.
Then click off.’
‘They won’t believe me.’
‘They won’t disbelieve you, either. Not straight away. Do it.’
Still looking for a gap in the traffic, Prior pulled the radio from his belt and brought it to his mouth. Bishop checked the
rear-view as Prior gave his
destination. Once he was done, Bishop grabbed the radio and threw it in the glove compartment.
The light turned green as they were waiting and Prior drove into 108th Avenue towards Merrick.
Bishop said, ‘Turn on your siren and flashers and pull the lead out. You’ll take a right at Merrick when we come to it. You
guessed where we’re headed yet?’
Prior turned on his lights and the accompanying siren got everyone’s attention. He swerved left into the oncoming lane and
started overtaking. The cars coming towards them got out of the way quickly. ‘Jamaica,’ he said.
‘That’s right.’ Bishop knew Merrick would take them to Archer. Then another five or six blocks to one of the busiest transit
hubs in New York. Ten of the eleven LIRR lines passed through Jamaica before splintering off again. And although it was a
Sunday evening, Bishop figured there’d be more than enough commuters for his purpose.
Ahead of them, a long line of cars waited for the lights to let them join Merrick. Prior kept in the oncoming lane and paused
at the junction until
the flashing red and white lights did their job. He sped off again down the four-lane thoroughfare,
veering in and out of traffic like a pro. Bishop suspected a small part of him was actually enjoying this.
‘You’re doing okay, Cliff,’ he said over the noise. ‘Just a little while longer and you’ll have the vehicle to yourself again.’
He looked at the gold
band on the fourth finger of the cop’s left hand. ‘And a bedtime story to tell your wife.’
‘Sure. Unless you go psycho on me.’
Bishop looked ahead at the busy six-way junction coming up at speed and sighed. ‘Believe it or not, killing cops isn’t high
on my list of priorities,’ he said. ‘I got enough problems. Not that I won’t if you force me to. Drive
straight through this
and take a left on Archer. You’ve done this before. Don’t stop; let the siren and the lights do the work.’
The policeman geared down as he approached the intersection. The east- and westbound cross traffic in front slowed at the
unwelcome intrusion and Prior used the available space to manoeuvre them through like they were in a game
of pinball. When
they emerged out the other side, Prior continued down Merrick, gradually picking up speed and raising his eyes to the rear-view
every few seconds.
‘Something interesting?’ Bishop asked. He reached up and swivelled the mirror round. Behind them he made out red and white
lights in the distance. Looked like two cars.
Well, that didn’t
take long
. ‘Delaney, right?’
Prior made a face and grunted, as if the very idea of a female in charge marked the beginning of the final days.
‘I’d only been there a few hours,’ Bishop said, watching his eyes. ‘She’s better than I thought.’
‘Or luckier. The desk clerk at the hotel made you and pressed three buttons on a phone. Yeah, she’s
talented, all right.’
Bishop smiled to himself. He figured she must be good at her job. Bad cops weren’t hated with such vehemence. ‘It’s a new
millennium, Cliff. It’s entirely possible she reached her position on merit alone.’
Prior didn’t reply. Probably didn’t see the irony in their conflicting viewpoints, either.
Bishop looked ahead.
Here came Archer. And a green light, no less. It changed to amber as they approached. ‘Beat the light,’
he said.
Prior accelerated and swept across the line of vehicles waiting to proceed east, tearing round into the westbound lane at
forty. ‘
Shit on a chute
,’ he cried and spun the wheel to the right. A large Kawasaki was coming straight at them, encroaching
on their lane to get
to the head of the eastbound queue. The rider saw their car bearing down on him and swerved to his right at the same time.
Bishop grimaced as the bike collided with the rear door of a stationary yellow cab. The police cruiser missed him by a hair
as it sped by.
Bishop glanced in the rear-view and saw the rider topple into the
street with his machine. A moment later he got up and looked
down at his bike, then back at the disappearing police car, while an angry, overweight man climbed out of the taxi alongside
him.
‘Jesus Horatio Christ,’ Prior breathed as he stared straight ahead, too scared to look in his wing mirrors. ‘Is he okay? Tell
me he’s okay.’
‘He’s fine,’ Bishop said, ‘as long as the cabbie doesn’t kill him.’ York College flew by to their left and he looked across
at the elevated LIRR lines running parallel to them. ‘Maybe he’ll stay in his own lane in future.’
The cop glanced in his side mirror and said, ‘That’s not funny. Jesus. That was
too
close.’
‘Forget about it. We’re nearly
there.’ They darted through the 150th Street intersection and Bishop could see the Sutphin
Boulevard junction a block ahead. As Prior muttered distractedly under his breath, Bishop started transferring everything
from his leather jacket to his pants pockets. In the distance, two more lines of cars waited at the next set of lights.
Bishop said, ‘Kill
the siren and stop behind that last car.’ The cop obeyed the first instruction and began to decelerate.
Bishop pulled out his baseball cap and Prior’s cuffs. He put the cap on and waited for the car to come to a halt in the centre
lane behind a red Toyota. He didn’t need to look in the rear-view to make the flashing lights two or three blocks back. Or
the din of the sirens.
The Jamaica Station terminal lay ahead at the far corner of the intersection. He had about fifteen
seconds. ‘Give me your handcuff keys,’ he said.
Prior hesitated, then pulled them from his pants pocket and tossed them over. Bishop handed him his cuffs and said, ‘Through
the wheel, Cliff. Hands on either side. It’s in both our interests for you to be quick.’
He waited while the cop attached
one of the bracelets to his left wrist, then pulled the other through the gap in the steering wheel and attached it to his
right.
The V was back in place as Prior glared back. ‘Maybe I’ll see you again, Bishop,’ he said.
‘Only on TV,’ Bishop said and took the keys from the ignition and placed the gun in the waistband
of his pants. ‘Your jurisdiction
ends at the state line.’ While Prior chewed on that, Bishop got out and slammed the door shut.
He looked back and saw that the two cars in pursuit had shortened the distance to a block. The grey Chevy was in front, followed
by another black-and-white. Bishop turned and ran to the sidewalk, threw both sets of keys into the
gutter along with his
hotel key, then sprinted towards the five-storey building on the other side of the crossroads.
Bishop figured they wouldn’t have seen him exit the vehicle so they’d have to check Prior’s cruiser first. Then they’d figure
he was making for the terminal and one of the train platforms, maybe even the subway station underneath them. And
Prior would
confirm it.
When Bishop reached the Sutphin Boulevard intersection he stopped behind the cover of an office building on the corner and
glanced back. Both cars had come to a stop behind the cruiser, lights still flashing but sirens off.
Bishop faced front and pulled the cap from his head and slid out of his jacket, making sure
his sweatshirt covered the gun.
He took the glasses from his shirt pocket and put them on. Then he walked off the kerb between two parked cars, tossed the
jacket and cap underneath the one on the left and jogged across the street towards the entrance doors.
Jamaica had recently undergone a major expansion, and the elevated tracks to the left of the
station building were now housed
under a curved steel and glass canopy that took up a large part of the skyline. Underneath, a long underpass led to the station
control centre on the other side of the tracks.