Grave Intent Read Online Free PDF Page B

Janet started the
van and tore out of the parking lot.
    “Huh, Mama? Was he?”
    Tires squealed as Janet turned right, barely
slowing for a stop sign. Worse than the lecherous come-on from the
man at the store was the knowledge he’d left with her. Michael’s
father, Wilson, was back in town. And if ever there was a reason
for her to intuit trouble, he was it.
     
     
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER THREE
    Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata played softly
overhead as Michael inspected Mr. Rasmussen’s burial suit. His
apprentice stood nearby, chewing on a fingernail.
    “So how’d I do?” Chad asked.
    Michael straightened Rasmussen’s tie, plucked
a speck of fuzz out of his hair, then leaned over the coffin to
check the nostrils for stray nose hairs. “Not bad. Just watch the
shirtsleeves. An inch past the jacket sleeves always looks best.”
He tugged lightly on the shirt’s cuffs. “See what I mean?”
    Chad nodded solemnly. “Christ, you’d think
after eight months of working with you I’d remember.”
    “Inch and a half’s actually better,” a man’s
voice said behind them.
    Michael and Chad turned in unison.
    “Could never get my boy to do it right,
though,” the man said with a sardonic grin.
    Michael blinked as if someone had just thrown
a handful of sand in his eyes. “Dad?” The person standing just
inside the viewing room barely resembled the man Michael had last
seen three years ago. Back then his father had been a formidable
figure, even at sixty-three years old. Six-foot two, one hundred
eighty pounds, only a touch of gray in his sandy brown hair near
the temples. This man looked like a freeze-dried version of the
original. Dressed in a faded black suit, he stood stoop-shouldered
and penny-nail thin. He hobbled toward Michael.
    “Been a while,” Wilson Savoy said, his voice
a smoker’s croup. He held out a knotted, shaking hand when he
reached his son.
    Michael shook it reluctantly, conscious of
the heat rolling up the sides of his neck. “Yes, it has,” he said,
still staring at his father’s flour-white hair. He couldn’t think
of anything else to say. Time, the supposed healer, had chosen to
keep a selection of memories stored away until this moment. Now,
like hell-bent kamikazes, they flew to the forefront of his mind
where they crashed, burned, then immediately resurrected.
    Much to his relief, Chad stuck out an
enthusiastic hand, which Wilson barely grazed. “Mr. Savoy, nice to
finally meet you. I’m Chad Thibodeaux, the apprentice.” Chad
flashed him a smile.
    “Thought as much,” Wilson said. He motioned
toward the coffin. “You do the casketing, Mr. Thibodeaux?”
    “Yes, sir. But please call me Ch—”
    “Head’s too low, Mr. Thibodeaux. Body needs
to be angled slightly. You’ve got him looking like a sardine in
there.”
    Chad’s smile collapsed, and he took a step
back.
    “The body’s fine,” Michael said, glaring at
his father.
    “Too low,” Wilson countered.
    “Any higher and he’d roll out.”
    Michael’s blood pressure rose exponentially
as he waited through the ensuing silence. From the corner of his
eye, he spotted Chad inching his way out of the room.
    Eventually, Wilson lowered his eyes. “Is that
all you have to say after three years?”
    Michael struggled to keep a groan locked
between his lips. Three years? Was that all his father thought they
had to catch up on? Make amends for? Thirty-six was more like it.
Every year since his son’s birth. What number of words could
possibly accumulate in a person’s head and heart over that period
of time? Millions? Trillions? Possibly none. Some heartaches simply
had no vocabulary.
    With a thrust of his chin, Michael motioned
his father to the door. “We’re expecting a family any minute. I
think this is better discussed in my office.”
    Wilson looked up sharply. “Just answer
me.”
    Michael clenched his teeth. “I said in
my office.” He stormed out ahead of his father, and as Michael made
his way down the