Free The Fury of Rachel Monette by Peter Abrahams

stepped forward and lowered the box into the hole with ropes. When they had it down one of the ropes would not come free, and the man had to tug at it carefully, the way one does with a snagged fishing line. An old New Englander with a runny nose tossed in a shovelful of earth. Because it was wet it landed on the wood with a heavy plop. That sound was what Rachel remembered best from the funeral.
    As they walked slowly, funereally she supposed, along the path that led to the cemetery gate, Rachel saw a tall man carrying a small suitcase. He was coming their way, striding quickly in a loose-jointed manner that was so close to Dan’s that it made her heart race. As he drew nearer she realized that he was a much older man. The skin of his thin face was a deeply weathered red-brown leather, and contrasted strangely with his hair, which was as white as chalk dust and fine as a baby’s. But the shape of the face resembled Dan’s—the long firm jaw line, the prominent cheekbones, the determined mouth. At the same time it was very different—more Gallic she thought, the nose more prominent, the whole structure not so used to what? To laughing? And the eyes, observant and clear walnut-brown like Dan’s, but far more experienced. Maybe that’s what aging does.
    â€œAh, no,” he said, addressing his remarks to Tom Dawkins, oldest in the party, “I am not too late?” His faint French accent went well with his musical voice.
    â€œYou’re Dan’s father?” Dawkins asked, and in his words, following directly on the other man’s, Rachel heard more of Arkansas than she had in the past.
    â€œDan?” The tall man seemed puzzled. “Of course, yes. Daniel. He was called Dan in America?” He caught sight of the gravediggers and looked thoughtful for a moment.
    â€œI’m very sorry, Mr. Monette. It’s a bad time for all of us,” Tom Dawkins said.
    The tall man nodded his head. Dawkins held out his hand. Monette removed his from the pocket of his gray trench coat and clasped Dawkins’s lightly and briefly in the French style.
    Dawkins turned to Rachel. “I understand you never had a chance to meet Dan’s wife Rachel.” Rachel and Monette looked at each other. Rachel appreciated what a good organizer Dawkins was being, but she had no idea what to say. She wasn’t even sure what to call him. Were they expected to embrace, she wondered.
    Monette helped. “I hope I have not upset you by being late,” he said to her.
    â€œOh, no.”
    â€œI found that this is not an easy place to reach,” Monette said. He looked slowly around, taking in the scenery. “It must be pleasant in the summer.”
    â€œIt is very pleasant,” said the chaplain, perhaps a little stung. “In fact, in my opinion it much resembles the Vosges region of your own country.”
    Monette’s brown eyes moved without haste from Rachel to the chaplain.
    â€œReally?” he said. It wasn’t a question.
    â€œWhere did you fly in? JFK?” Rachel’s father wanted to know.
    â€œYes. I did.”
    â€œThat’s a shame. If I’d known I could have given you a lift up.” He gestured to the long silver car outside the gate.
    â€œBad luck,” said Monette.
    She decided on his full name. “Xavier Monette,” she said, “this is my father, Jack Bernstein.” Again the hand emerged from the coat pocket and did its duty. Her father took the opportunity to develop Tom Dawkins’s theme.
    â€œWhat an awful time. Awful. And the police are getting nowhere. Fast. I’m losing all my respect for the FBI.”
    The others were beginning to move away. Rachel, her father, and her father-in-law walked toward the gate.
    â€œIn your telegram you said that the little boy was missing. Is there any word?”
    â€œNot yet. I’m calling the police as soon as we get home.”
    â€œThen let us go, by all