Free The Wrong Man by Jason Dean

door and reburied the DVD case under the stoneslab in the patio. It only held
     the two keys now, but he didn’t want to carry any connection to this house on his person. Plus he might need to use the place
     again.
    Staring at the fence, he took the Advil from his pocket and downed three. They were helping, but not much. As good as he could
     hope for over the counter; anything heavier would need aprescription. But then, climbing over fences probably wasn’t helping
     much either.
    Sighing, he pulled himself up to the top again and eventually landed on the other side. He got up, took the sunglasses from
     his jacket pocket and put them on. As he walked back through his neighbours’ property to Katan, he thought of a magazine article
     he’d read a fewyears back. A profile of a retired Marshal named Sandy Lennox. According to Sandy, ninety-five per cent of
     all fugitives were caught within three days or three miles of the institution they’d escaped from. The ‘rule of three’, he
     called it. Bishop found the figure hard to believe, just like he found all statistical data suspect –
who
exactly came up with these numbers? – butit stayed on his mind. If true, did the other five per cent have as much incentive
     to remain at liberty as he did? Less? More?
    Probably less, he decided.
    As Bishop got onto Richmond to wait for the next bus to St George Ferry Terminal, he thought the very least he could do was
     make his pursuers work for their money.

SEVENTEEN
    Bishop half watched the game coming to an end from a bench under some maple trees. He sat twenty yards in front of the wire
     fence that separated the basketball courts from the kids’ section of the playground.
    Only nine thirty and the park in Brooklyn was already filling up. He watched moms walk close behind their kids. Sometimeswith hungover boyfriends or husbands in tow, eyes half shut against the late summer daylight. A few teenage males congregated
     around the courts, strutting and shuffling to an imaginary female audience and the hip-hop coming from their bass-heavy stereo.
    At six-four, the big white guy on the court should have been a natural but he lacked grace and pace. Thetwo opposing players
     were running rings around him while keeping their distance. But his partner was another matter. He had some moves in him,
     but the finishing touch just wasn’t there.
    Bishop turned his face up to the sky and closed his eyes as he leaned back against the bench, whistling softly through his
     teeth, enjoying the heat. Even the stereodidn’t annoy him.
    ‘Who’s winning?’
    He opened an eye to look at the profile of the attractive woman who’d just sat down at the other end of the bench.
    Mid to late twenties, hardly any make-up, dark green combats and a faded red T-shirt bearing a screen-print of fifties-era
     Elvis. She looked ahead at the game and pecked at a Danish out ofa paper bag. She wore a black baseball cap, and a small,
     black ponytail protruded from the vent at the back. Her nose was straight and he noticed a slight overbite when she took another
     nibble of her breakfast. The fingers holding the pastry were long and elegant and ended in clipped, clear nails.
    He took off his sunglasses and said, ‘No idea.’
    ‘You were watching before I sat down,’ she said.
    Bishop nodded in the direction of the court and she glanced at him. ‘It might matter to them,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t much matter
     to me.’
    ‘So you’re waiting for someone.’
    Bishop turned, curious. Her eyes were slightly darker than her brown skin, and the whites around the irises madethem seem
     doe-like. He liked the way they watched him. Then again, he hadn’t been around women for a while. Even when he had, it was
     never for very long.
    ‘Is that what I’m doing?’
    She smiled and took another bite. ‘Put money on it.’
    ‘Why pick on me?’
    ‘I’m just talking.’ She turned as a shadow blotted out the sun onher face.
    The pale guy with no pace grinned