Suddenly he felt the long and pain-filled years ease away.
They slipped and were gone as though he'd only been there for that one day, as though the moment had arrived as soon as he had arrived that morning.
In reality, every single minute of every one of the hours and days he'd spent sat in the same chair, arm propped on the same window sill, hurt him. It was time he would never get back - thirty five years of hurt.
The old Leonard Cohen track 'Waiting for the miracle' popped into his head at that moment. It had done so many a time over the years, ever since he'd taken the shabby second floor apartment in the summer of '77, but this was the only time that the tune in his head had caused a smile to break out across his face.
In '77, he'd been in mourning when he'd come to view the place - it was the only home he'd ever viewed alone, but he didn't need his lost soul-mate to tell him it was perfect. A quick glance out of the window had confirmed that - perfect, just perfect then. But today it was everything, the best place on earth he could wish to be.
He leaned back in his chair, gave his back another much needed stretch, took a quick glance around the room. Not too long, as he didn't want to miss anything outside the window, but long enough to take in the surroundings, knowing that within a matter of moments he'd be moving on, leaving the apartment, leaving everything behind, moving out of town and moving on in his life.
The opposite corner of the room was stacked high with piles of books, crime fiction paperbacks. He'd read them all - never allowed himself to buy one until he'd finished the last one - he had rules. They were a staff for him in the years he had waited, for the most part they gave hope, a sense of justice, good triumphing over evil in its many forms. Sure there were a few in the stack where he thought he was reading retreads of the same story over and over, but there were always twists, diversions along the way to keep him alert and on his toes as he read. They also served as a reminder, good and bad, of his time on the job, for the times that this tired and retired old NYPD detective sat and read of procedural errors that he would find either laugh-out-loud hilarious or frustratingly inaccurate.
Somebody was in for a great find, he thought, knowing that if he'd had half a mind he would have deposited the book collection at a charity, maybe even sold them to a bookstore as a job lot, help him with his continued retirement. But he hadn't thought to do that and, besides, he'd picked most of them up at flea markets and secondhand bookstores himself anyway. And wasn't the ass hanging out of the book market now anyway with everyone going for those new e-reader things he'd started to see on the subway?
The books would stay. Those and what other few belongings he had in the apartment. For thirty five long years he'd adapted, grown used to living with just the items he needed day to day. All those years ago something happened to Detective Joseph Bryant which had made him very aware of just what mattered, just what you needed with you in life. It was only when his wife of six years was taken from him that he truly accepted that. And by then, of course, it was too late.
There was a fine drizzle on the window pane, but not sufficient to cloud his view out. He looked out intently, watching the figure who had been walking between the rows of stones for about twenty minutes now. The man was dressed in a dark full length trench-coat, a black fedora-like hat pulled down over his eyes, shielding them from the rain as he continued to pace.
'Gangster-look to the very end, eh Bishop?' Bryant muttered under his breath. 'Very fitting'.
He glanced down at what lay at his feet, but saw no reason to rush things - enough time had passed and this was a moment to savour. So instead of taking up the rifle, he reached for the tumbler of whisky on the table beside him, saw the half-read Lawrence Block book beside it, promised himself he'd buy another copy when he reached his new destination. This afternoon he'd be travelling light - just like Jack Reacher did in those Lee Child novels he loved - finish a mission and then take off. Start afresh. Only different was, he only had this one mission, only one he'd ever had. It wasn't one he chose to set off on, just happened to be the hand he was dealt on the day Laura was taken from him.
