Recovery and the Return of Ethan Hart Read Online Free PDF

family called the Taylors, who lived in…he struggles to remember the name of the district, or the road, and Matt, equally pleased and almost equally frustrated, struggles to assist his recollection. Professor Taylor taught History at Dartmouth College…
    And then, by one of those wonderful coincidences, Matt knows exactly whom he means, because the college mentioned is his own Alma Mater. And although he didn’t study under Professor Taylor, he’s not only spoken to him on several occasions but once came close to dating his youngest daughter, Jo—Meg—Beth? He’s sure it’s something out of ‘Little Women’…
    â€œMeg! Yes! Yes, you’re right! Oh, just a baby at the time! Of all the most extraordinary things! Now, who would ever have believed…?”
    The two of them stand beaming at one another and I reflect that Matt may shortly change his mind about the coffee but he doesn’t and he’s right: after that initial explosion of excitement there’s disappointingly little to sustain it. The talk deteriorates into stilted references to the rivalries between Yale and its nearby competitors; to the fact that the Winchester repeating rifle (‘the gun that tamed the West!’) and Samuel Colt’s improved repeating revolver were both developed in New Haven. Could that say anything significant one wonders—ahem—about the law-abiding nature of the city’s inhabitants, or possible lack thereof? And remind me now: what is the name of the river on which the town is built? (The Quinnipiac, sir, which is what the city itself was once called.) Ah, yes, and it’s even more industrialized these days, I’m sure. And are your people—er—in industry? (Yes, sir. My family’s in the meatpacking trade.)
    I sympathize with Mr Farlingham. What kind of comment runs trippingly off the tongue regarding a family that works in the meatpacking trade?
    â€œAh, yes. How interesting! Meatpacking, you say…?”
    There’s a pause.
    â€œWell, it’s been great meeting you, sir, and we certainly enjoyed the service. Daresay we’ll be here again before too long.”
    Pure courtesy, of course. Nothing but the most fundamental form of politeness; the Americans are famed for it.
    But, even so, my heart leaps up—rejoicing.

5
    â€œCome on, Tex, watch the birdie. Say cheese.”
    â€œI might say any number of things but cheese wouldn’t be among them.”
    â€œAll right, say up yours; yet at least try not to grimace while you’re doing it.”
    Tom pulls the film out and waits for the picture to materialize.
    â€œOkay, that’s fine,” he says. “Now let’s go in.”
    The police station is on Savile Row, near Piccadilly. Tom has a friend there, someone whom he got to know during his own time on the force. Sergeant Payne is powerfully built, gap-toothed, beady-eyed. He’s certainly no beauty.
    â€œJim, this is Tex.”
    â€œRitter?” the sergeant asks, shaking my hand.
    â€œWho knows?” My own dryness matches his. “That’s why we’re here.”
    â€œStill looks pretty good, though, doesn’t he,” says Tom, “for someone who’s been dead for roughly fifteen years?”
    Then he explains.
    â€œToo bad,” observes his buddy. “I was hoping for a chorus of that thing from High Noon . ‘Do not forsake me oh my darling.’ Might have enlivened a bleak Tuesday.”
    I can understand why the two of them are trying to keep the tone cheerful but I have a fleeting image of a female face, strained, heavy-eyed with fatigue, and again I’m shocked at the ease with which I’m able to forget the pain of others. (I now feel sure there must be others.) It makes no difference if the face belongs simply to the woman in the snapshot. For the time being, because that photo’s the only thing I have to go upon, at least she can stand