Son of Fletch (2 page)

“Long as they leave my pickled beets alone.”

In the kitchen, Carrie said, “Me for a shower. A warm shower. You too?”

“Guess I’ll wait until you’re finished.”

“Will you come upstairs with me?”

“There are no panthers upstairs. I already looked.”

He got a can of tuna fish out of the cupboard.

She asked, “You hungry?”

“No. Come to think of it, let me go upstairs for the shotgun. Then I’d like you to go into the living room, turn out the lights, and wait for me.”

“Oh.” Wet and cold, she shivered. “The Jeep.”

Leaving Carrie standing alone with the loaded shotgun in a corner of the dark living room, Fletch jogged up the slippery hill. There was no question whatsoever in his mind that if she were confronted with an intruder, Carrie would not only shoot, she would shoot as well as she normally did, which was very well indeed. Without a blink of hesitation, if armed, calmly she would blow the head off anyone who messed with her, or hers. In his years in the southern part of the United States, Fletch had come to know and respect the Southern country woman considerably in this way. Distinctly Carrie was a Southern country woman.

Thinking it would be safer, Fletch drove the Jeep back along the timber road, down to the hardtop road, down it to the driveway, and up it. He left the Jeep in the carport, with the truck and the station wagon.

In the dining room, he said into the dark living room, “If you don’t shoot me, just maybe I’ll live to give you a kiss.”

“What will you give me if I do shoot you?”

“The job of having to dig a big hole somewhere.”

“Are you alone?”

The intelligence of the question impressed him. “Except for Za-Za and Fifi.”

“Don’t joke.”

“I’m alone,” Fletch said.

‘Prove it.”

“All escaped convicts are chickens.”

“Okay.”

In the bedroom, staying nearer to the door to the house than to the bathroom door, so he could hear over the sound of the shower, Fletch pulled off his boots and his wet clothes. He put on his bathrobe.

“All done.” Carrie came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her head.

“Are you going to use the hair dryer?”

“I have to.”

“I’ll wait.”

When she was done, he left her in the bedroom with the handgun and took a quick, warm shower himself.

“Okay.” He put the shotgun on the floor next to Carrie’s side of the bed, away from the bedroom door. “Is this good for you?”

“Fine.”

He changed into fresh jeans, shirt, and running shoes. “I’ll be downstairs.”

“Are you going to sit up all night?”

“Maybe.”

In the kitchen, he picked up the phone and listened. He tried a few numbers.

The phone was dead.

He mixed the tuna fish with chopped onion, celery, and mayonnaise. He lightly toasted two pieces of bread. He put the light toast on a plate, heaped the tuna mix on the toast, and spread Swiss cheese on the tuna. He put the plate into the oven. He did not turn on the oven.

Then he went into the study.

He opened the French door behind his desk.

With his back to the door, he sat at his desk, apparently relaxed.

He slid the handgun under some loose papers on his desk.

Outside, the storm raged. The rain was deafening. The wind moved a paper on his desk. After the warm day, the breeze cooled off the study quickly.

Fletch did not have long to wait.

It was only a few minutes when he felt the small, round object pressed just below his left ear.

A voice behind him said, “Don’t move.”

Fletch said, “Hydy, son. How’s your ma?”

C
areful not to
move, Fletch said, “Son, put down that PVC!” He chuckled.

Behind him, a young man’s voice asked, “What’s a PVC?”

“In this instance,” Fletch answered, “I mean that piece of white, plastic pipe, six inches long, one inch in diameter you’re holding in your left hand.”

Fletch continued to feel the pressure against his head, behind, below his left ear. The voice said, “It’s a gun barrel.”

“Couldn’t shoot a dried pea two meters with that barrel if your name were Louis Armstrong.”

The young man was breathing somewhat heavily. “You don’t know it’s not a gun. How do you know it’s not a gun?”

“‘Cause I didn’t leave a gun for you to find on the path. I left you a piece of pipe to find.”

“You left it for me to find?”

“Oh, yes. And then made the light from the study window
shine on it. Anything to instill confidence in the younger generation. Encourage family visitations.”

The young man behind Fletch took three more fairly deep breaths. “You know I’m your son?”

“Not yet.”

After a few seconds the pressure against Fletch’s head stopped.

Fletch asked, “Seeing I’m sitting and you’re standing behind me, and therefore have the advantage, I ask you, may I move, please?”

“To do what?”

“To look at you. I’m mildly curious.”

“About what?”

“To see what Crystal hath wrought.”

“Crystal,” the young man’s voice said.

“Your mother. Crystal. Crystal Faoni is your mother, isn’t she?”

After a deep breath, the voice said, “Okay.”

Fletch swiveled slowly around in his desk chair.

Simultaneously, the young man turned around to face the far wall.

At first Fletch saw only the back of a soaking wet, lean male in his early twenties. The back of his denim shirt had stitched on it FEDERAL PENITENTIARY/TOMASTON.

Fletch tisked. “You kids. You can’t wear anything without some sort of an advertisement or a slogan on it. Wouldn’t the usual beer logo or ‘YALE’ do just as well?”

The young man stuck the piece of pipe into the back pocket of his wet jeans.

With his foot, Fletch slid the metal wastebasket from under his desk.

Apparently identifying the noise accurately, the young
man turned. With a quick grin and a glance at Fletch, he dropped the pipe into the basket.

“You have your mother’s eyes,” Fletch said.

“She says the rest of me is pure you.”

“Poor you. Your boots are messing up the floor.” Up to their high-top laces they were covered with mud, manure, bits of hay.

“I always heard that father types say things like that.”

“Take ‘em off. Right where you are.” Fletch tapped his foot against the side of the wastebasket. “You’re not in a jailhouse now. No free labor here.”

Standing on one foot, then the other, the young man removed one boot, filthy, wet white sock, dropped them in the wastebasket, then the other boot and sock. He asked, “Couldn’t you say ‘Hello’ first? ‘How are you? How’s your life been?’”

“You like tuna puffs?”

“What’s a tuna puff?”

“I liked them, your age. Still do. Warm food.”

“I like warm food.”

Passing between the young man and the desk, Fletch went into the study bathroom. He returned with two towels. One he handed to the young man. The other he dropped on the mess the young man’s boots had made on the wood floor. He stirred the towel around with his foot.

“What’s your name?” Fletch asked.

“John.”

“Faoni.”

“John Fletcher Faoni.”

“True?”

“Too true.”

“What do people call you?”

“Jack.”

“Oh.”

“Sometimes I say my name is Fletch.”

“Oh. That sounds more familiar.”

“Fletch Faoni. Lots of people are called Jack.”

“Gee. And all this time I thought Crystal liked my first names.”

“Irwin Maurice,” Jack blurted.

Crouching on bent knees, Fletch finished cleaning up the mess on the floor. He picked up the towel and turned it over. “Would you believe I didn’t know you exist?”

“I know you didn’t. Mother didn’t want you to.”

Fletch looked up at the barefoot boy with cheeks wet with rain. Without using the towel, Jack had just hung it around his neck. “Why not?”

“Said I was none of your business. Shouldn’t be a burden to you. You didn’t ask for me. She conned you, entrapped you, or something. Way she tells it, she virtually had me by artificial insemination.”

“Not quite. Although I think she would have had you by parthenogenesis, if she could have.”

Jack did not ask what
parthenogenesis
meant.

Still crouching, wet, filthy towel in hand, Fletch continued to look up at the young man, who had not moved back, or away, across the room, who remained standing closer to Fletch than normal, as if to
sense
him.

Jack’s hair was curled with rain and mud. His face was streaked by dirt in dried sweat, especially in his day-old, two-day-old light beard.

He smelled of outdoors, rain, sweat, trees, hay, exertion.

Fletch said, “We made love only once.”

“She’s told me you were both naked on a bathroom floor struggling to free yourselves from a shower curtain you had
fallen through, or some such ridiculous thing. And so I got born.”

“That’s about right.” Fletch smiled. “Entrapped in a shower curtain. Something like that. But she didn’t exactly
entrap
me. We were at a journalism convention at Hendricks’ Plantation, in Virginia. In fact, if I remember correctly, I entered the shower voluntarily. Of course, it was my shower, and I can’t remember how she happened to be in it. What’s more, it was a real case of coitus interruptus. I mean, after being interrupted by a third person, we both did return our attentions back to what apparently turned out to be your conception. She must have timed the occasion perfectly. It wasn’t until later that I realized Crystal was trying to get pregnant. By me. Crystal always was good at timing things.”

“How did you feel about that?”

“I was complimented.”

“Did you love her at all?”

“Oh yes. Crystal was charming, brilliant, witty, thoughtful, perceptive, loving, with gorgeous skin and eyes. She could have been a great beauty.”

“Except she probably weighed a ton and a half.”

“She felt she had a weight problem, yes. Does she still?”

“She weighs about right,” Jack said, “if only she were fourteen feet tall.”

“I think she hadn’t many lovers.”

“From what she’d told me,” Jack said, “Mother made love only twice in her life. Once to you, and once, long before, to a man named Shapiro.”

“Oh, yes. I remember now. That’s how I figured out what she was doing. She had attempted this selective breeding once before.”

“And was she terribly fat even then?”

“Corpulent.” Fletch dumped the dirty wet towel into the wastebasket. He stood up. “Trouble with Crystal was that she thought she was unattractive. She told everybody she was unattractive all the time. So most people saw her as unattractive.”

Jack said, “You did what you did without forethought.”

“You’re well-spoken. Yes. Without much forethought. But I could have done something else.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

Fletch cut his eyes to read the young man’s face. “Are you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Did I make a mistake?”

Finally the young man stepped into the middle of the room. His eyes scanned the light switches. “Do the lights in this house go on automatically?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because the lights went on one by one. Fifteen minutes later you came down the road in the Jeep by yourself. What do you have, some kind of a radio switch in the Jeep?”

Fletch asked, “In which barn are your traveling companions?”

The young man hesitated. “The one further from here.”

“Do they smoke? Do they have matches, lighters?”

“They don’t smoke. I don’t know if they have lighters.”

“If they have matches they’re probably soaked and useless.”

“How did you know about them? My ‘traveling companions’? Why do you call them that?”

“I met the sheriff on the way home. There are roadblocks up. They’re looking for you.”

“Oh. And the sheriff mentioned the name Faoni to you?”

“Kriegel. Faoni. Leary. Moreno. Which one are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“The murderer, the attempted murderer, the kidnapper, or the drug grocer?”

“Attempted murder.”

“I see.”

The young man stood very straight. “I’m asking you if you are alone in the house. I know there was no one in the house before you arrived.”

“You’re trying to tell me you’ve got big, tough friends outside.”

“Yeah.”

Fletch moved some of the papers on his desk, revealing the handgun. He picked it up and put it in his belt. “You saw me arrive alone.”

The young man raised his chin a little. Still he seemed to be sniffing Fletch warily. “Yes.”

“The barns are the first places the cops will look for you, and your traveling companions. As kids they hid in barns themselves.” Jack said nothing. Pointing, Fletch said, “Uphill of the back barn, to the left, about one hundred and fifty meters, is a deep gully. There’s all kind of junk, trees, old barbed wire, fence posts, whatever, thrown in that gully as somebody’s idea of a means to prevent erosion. In a storm like this, shortly, if not already, water will come streaming hard down that gully. I’m certain the cops will not go into that gully.”
They will not go into that gully
, Fletch knew,
because as kids they learned that’s one of the places where the snakes are
. He asked Jack, “Do you want to help your traveling companions escape?”

Jack said, “Yes.”

“Then go lead them up to the gully, tell them to hunker down in it, and to stay there until further notice.”
Further
notice will come
, Fletch continued in his own mind,
after your traveling companions have been thoroughly exhausted, terrified by snakes, and beaten up by rushing water beating them against trees, fence posts, and coils of rusty barbed wire
. “Better put your boots back on. Outside.”

“Why are you helping me? I, we’re a danger to you. And you’d better believe it.”

“Hey. Aren’t fathers supposed to grab every minute they can get to spend with their sons? I mean, here you are, taking probably just a short vacation from a federal penitentiary; clearly you’ve gone considerably out of your way to come see your old dad…”