The Getaway - By Tom Barber Page 0,22

had died in the line of service, the whole thing had already been organised and paid for by the Bureau, and there was a good turnout, lots of people he didn’t recognise, a couple he did. Archer was standing in his black suit, white shirt and black tie at the front of those gathered, looking over at the polished brown coffin held by levers over the freshly dug grave. He was the only family member present. High above, the sun was shining, not a single cloud in the sky. It was another beautiful day, a strange contrast to his mood. Hollywood liked to make it rain in situations like this, to match the mood or the lead character’s feelings. Life, however, often wasn’t that black and white.

The clergyman conducting the service began a final prayer and those gathered bowed their heads. Archer kept his head up, still staring at the polished wooden coffin, a series of bouquets of white flowers resting on the lacquered wood, small envelopes tucked amongst the flowers with personal notes written to Special-Agent-in-Charge James Archer. Looking at the coffin, his son pictured him inside. He hadn’t seen him in over a decade, but here they were, ten feet from each other, the last time they would ever be in such close proximity. He swallowed, as the clergyman approached the end of the prayer.

He suddenly sensed someone watching him. He looked up and saw a woman with dark-brown hair standing the other side of the freshly-dug grave. She was about his age, attractive and dressed in a dark work suit, but was staring at him with a strange look on her face. If anything, she looked tense. Worried. Concerned. Maybe a mix of all three.

They held each other’s gaze, brown eyes on blue, but that look of concern on her face didn’t diminish.

If anything, she looked almost scared.

Maybe she and Dad were friends, he thought. Probably colleagues in the Bureau. She looked the type.

Once the service had ended, Archer had taken one last look at the coffin, then turned and walked away. He moved slowly over the grass, headed towards the old gates that led out of the graveyard. He’d hailed a taxi here, and planned to head back into Manhattan. Someone had told him earlier that there was some kind of wake planned, but he wasn’t going to go. Right now, he just wanted to be alone.

But a voice called quietly from behind him, cutting into his thoughts and solitude.

‘Sam.’

He turned, and saw a man he hadn’t seen in over a decade approaching him, dressed in a black suit and tie over a white shirt. His name was Todd Gerrard, but all his friends called him Gerry. He and James Archer had been close friends, having come up in the NYPD together in the 80’s when the city was nowhere near as safe for a cop as it was now. Judging by his suit and demeanour, Gerry had moved on to bigger things. Archer noted streaks of grey in his brown hair, but he still looked in good nick, lean-faced and alert.

‘Hey Gerry,’ Archer said. ‘It’s been a while.’

Gerrard offered his hand, and the younger man shook it, as other mourners passed them.

‘Damn it’s good to see you kid,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you’d make it.’

Archer shrugged.

‘Here I am.’

Gerrard glanced around. ‘Where’s your sister?’

‘In D.C. She couldn’t get time off.’

‘Your mother?’

‘She’s gone. Two years ago. Blood clot in her lung.’

There was a pause. Archer started to walk on towards the gate, and his father’s old friend kept pace alongside him. There was a brief silence. Then Gerry broke it.

‘You want to grab a coffee?’ he asked.

Archer looked over at him. He decided he could probably use some company, especially with an old friend of his father.

Gerry read his expression and took it as affirmation.

‘C’mon, it’s on me,’ he said. ‘We’ve got some catching up to do.’

Twenty minutes later, they were inside a Starbucks coffee shop in Manhattan, on the corner of 35 and 7Avenue. Gerry had driven them here. Inside the Bureau car, Archer had watched the streets flash past through the tinted windows of the black Mercedes as they drove through Astoria, over the Queensborough and then into Manhattan. Traffic was lighter considering it was the weekend and the journey was a relatively quick one, but neither man said a word during the ride. They were saving the conversation for over coffee.

Once Gerrard had parked near Herald Square and put a Bureau marker on