Inside, the church was even smaller than he’d remembered. Keeping that firmly in mind, he loped toward the crowd, one hand on his hat as a sudden hot gust sent hems flying. The funeral, the wake, one night and he was gone. It was a message easier to ignore in the tall shadows of Melbourne than in Kiewarra, where shade was a fleeting commodity.įalk glanced once at the road leading back out of town, then at his watch. Pale from birth with close-cropped, white-blond hair and invisible eyelashes, he’d often felt during his thirty-six years that the Australian sun was trying to tell him something. But with skin the blue hue of skim milk for half the year and a cancerous-looking cluster of freckles the rest, Falk was prepared to risk the fashion faux pas. Wide-brimmed in stiff brown canvas, it didn’t go with his funeral suit. After the briefest hesitation, he grabbed his hat from the seat. He snatched opened the backseat door to get his jacket, searing his hand in the process. The late-afternoon heat draped itself around him like a blanket. Satisfied no one looked familiar, he stepped out of the car. He’d dragged his heels the whole way from Melbourne, blowing out the five-hour drive to more than six. He allowed himself a moment to scan the crowd, although he didn’t really have time. The air conditioner rattled into silence, and the interior began to warm immediately. Across the road the media circled.įalk parked his sedan next to a pickup truck that had also seen better days and killed the engine. Neighbors, determined but trying not to appear so, jostled each other for the advantage as the scrum trickled through the doors. A bottleneck of black and gray was already forming at the entrance as Aaron Falk drove up, trailing a cloud of dust and cracked leaves. Even those who didn’t darken the door of the church from one Christmas to the next could tell there would be more mourners than seats.

The dry jane