The Fury of Rachel Monette Read Online Free PDF Page B

Partridge went back into the classroom, got Adam dressed in his outdoor clothes, packed the remains of his lunch in his lunch box, told him that you had asked the nice man to take him home, and sent him off. When she turned from the door she noticed the clock on the wall said twelve fifteen.” The creaking noise grew louder. Ed Joyce put down his notebook.
    â€œI hope you’re not thinking too badly of Miss Partridge. I’m sure she knows she’s acted like a foolish old woman, but she said the man seemed very understanding and compassionate, even sad, she thought. He was very good at what he was doing, Mrs. Monette. And besides, she thought of him as a man of the cloth: that kind of thing means a lot to someone like Miss Partridge.”
    Rachel said nothing. She was thinking of Adam’s lunch box with the picture of Porky Pig on the front. She got out of the chair and went to the liquor cabinet. She had been debating with herself for some time the question of whether she should have a drink. She wanted one but it seemed self-indulgent, frivolous. And yet what would it prove if she stopped eating, stopped drinking, stopped eliminating, withdrew from the chain of life, or whatever they called it in grade school? That was the question of course—whether to go on living. To go on living felt immoral.
    â€œHave a drink, Mrs. Monette,” said Ed Joyce quietly. “I wouldn’t mind one myself, whatever you’re having.”
    Rachel opened the cabinet and took out two glasses. She seldom drank anything other than a glass or two of wine at dinner, and perhaps beer at lunch. As she reached for the Scotch she glimpsed the dark frosted green glass of the squat armagnac bottle. She paused, bent over the cabinet, one hand around the neck of the bottle of Scotch. There was really no question at all, not while Adam was out there somewhere. Would she know if something happened to him? She had read of mothers sensing that their sons had died in far-off battles at the moment the deaths occurred. She didn’t believe in psychic power; at the same time she could think of no reason why anyone would kill a five-year-old boy.
    The doorbell rang. Hard shoes walked across the hall. Rachel heard a murmur of male voices and then a man said, “Hello, my name’s Trimble and I’m from the FBI. May I come in?”
    Rachel turned to face him. He was young, even younger than she perhaps. A barber had neatly trimmed his dark hair, a dry cleaner had neatly pressed his dark suit. An optician had sold him expensive aviator-style spectacles and the family genetic pool had given him small even features, even teeth, a light tenor voice, and faint acne scars.
    â€œYes,” she said. He entered and sat in the rocker.
    â€œI’ll take a rain check for now, Mrs. Monette, if you don’t mind,” said Ed Joyce. Rachel closed the liquor cabinet and remained standing in front of it. No drinking with the FBI. To Trimble he said, “I’m Joyce, chief of the force here. Have you seen the preliminary report?”
    â€œWhat there was of it.”
    Joyce took a deep breath before he cleared his throat and resumed: “I’ve been explaining the details to Mrs. Monette. I was about to go over some of the questions they raise in my mind.” Trimble held out his hand, palm up in invitation to proceed.
    â€œFirst, no sign of a car. Mrs. Flores didn’t see one in front of the house. A fellow walking around in that getup would attract a lot of attention. But no one remembers seeing him. Therefore either he had someone drop him off in a car, or he took off the robe when he walked to the school.”
    â€œOr he walked wearing the robe and no one saw him,” said Trimble trying to make his high voice sound bland.
    â€œIt’s possible.” Ed Joyce rubbed his fleshy nose with the side of his fist. “We do know he left the house by the back door. There was no way he could have gone