Son of Fletch (8 page)

On his last visit to their offices three years previous, he discovered that since Global Cable’s move from Washington, D.C., to deep in the Virginia countryside, their headquarters had grown to airport-hangar size. Besides the studios, there were rows and rows of young people frowning at computer workstations. There were whole sections of medical doctors working as journalists, lawyers working as journalists, people with doctors of philosophy in the various disciplines working as journalists, athletes working as journalists. They did not seem to talk to each other, NO
SMOKING signs were everywhere. There were neither wads of chewing tobacco nor chewing gum on the floors. The windows were clean. The facility had a health spa, including trainers, handball courts, and an Olympic-sized swimming pool, and a day-care center. Just the parking lot was acres big.

As a journalist, Fletch had worked (as seldom as possible) in a city room in a building he thought big in the busiest section of the city, surrounded by bars and theaters and bars and police stations and bars and slums. Few journalists had academic degrees. They had strong legs, loud voices, no regard for theories, predictions, speculation, trends, or statistics. They believed only in discovering and printing the facts of present history. They lived in the city, rode the buses, the subways, hung around the bars, police stations, hospitals, ballparks, political enclaves. They had charm and temper and the gift of gab that would draw admissions from a judge. They loved and hated each other with passion.

News, in those days, was ninety-five percent fact, three percent fancy, and two percent speculation.

As extrapolation had not yet entered the business, news, in those days, was far less confusing.

When Fletch would call Global Cable News with a bit of information,
news
, suggestion, comment, a question, he was answered with
Yes, Mister Fletcher. Yes, Mister Fletcher. Yes, Mister Fletcher
, instant response, thorough follow-through. It made him as uncomfortable as their headquarters. He did not like being listened to as a journalist because he was a major investor.

So he asked that when he called, only one person answer and say,
Yes, Mister Fletcher
.

That person was Andy Cyst.

“Yes, Mister Fletcher?”

“Andy, I need some information. First, I need to find a woman named Crystal Faoni.” He spelled the name out. “She used to be a working journalist. I believe she never married. I believe she has one son, named John, which she has raised herself. I’m told she now owns five radio stations in Indiana. Possibly with a residence in Bloomington. Presently, she may be at a health spa, I’m told
incommunicado
, somewhere.”

“F-A-O-N-I?”

“Yes.”

“An unusual name.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“An old flame, eh?” Andy asked.

“An old spark, more like.”

“Why do you need me? You have enough information here—”

“Because I am limited in what I can do at this moment.” He hoped Andy was saying to himself,
The old boy’s gettin’ lazy
. “Also, I think I would like to see, or at least talk to, Faoni within the next few days. Where exactly is she? What’s her schedule? How serious is this
incommunicado
situation? When you find her.”

“Okay.”

“Next, some convicts escaped from the federal penitentiary in Tomaston, Kentucky, yesterday.”

“Yes. Two.”

“Two?”

“I’m trying to recall what I saw regarding this story on Global Cable News. We’ve carried the full story, needless to say.”

“Andy, you know I don’t get cable here on the farm.”

“I know.”

“Cable was originally intended for rural areas. Then your business chiefs discovered dwellings in the cities and towns are closer together, and therefore much more profitable to wire. So we still don’t get cable out here.”

“You’ve mentioned this to me before.”

“About a thousand times.”

“Thirteen hundred and five times. You’re the one who makes the profits, Mister Fletcher.”

“Go ahead. Rub it in. I just want you all to know why I am not a devoted viewer. Why I do not memorize your every shifting probability. Furthermore, I understand there are four escapees.” To himself, Fletch said,
Now there are three
. “I need to know everything about every one of them.”

“Are you working on something, Mister Fletcher? I mean, for GCN?”

“Just maybe.”

“You want a crew?”

“No. Not yet, anyway. Was anyone hurt during the escape?”

“Ummm. I think not. You want me to boot up my personal computer to read the office files?”

“No. I haven’t the time right now. I have another call to make.”

“Sorry, I guess I didn’t pay that much attention to this story. Last night we, uh—”

Fletch waited. “Are you going to tell me?”

“Went to a concert, in old D.C.”

“So you had a late night.”

“You know what was weird?”

“Tell me.” In the smokehouse, Fletch glanced at his watch.

“The first half of the concert was big band, you know, like in the 1940s? The second half a rock light show. Like in the sixties, I guess.”

“Eclectic,” Fletch said.

“It’s left me confused. Headachy.”

One of many things Fletch admired about Andy was his respect for straight lines. “Go with the flow, baby.”

“Anything else? I’m leaving for the office now.”

“What’s The Tribe?”

“Whose?”

“I guess that’s the right question.”

“Mister Fletcher, I told you I heard more noise last night than is good for one.”

“I know, Andy. You lead the quiet life, there in the Virginia countryside.”

“Is this a real question? Am I supposed to find out something about some tribe?”

“I don’t know yet. But the question doesn’t mean anything to you?”

“Can noise make you feel sort of sick? We had beef Thai pecan last night, wild rice. That couldn’t have done it, could it?”

“As long as the pecans weren’t wild.”

“Are there wild pecans?”

“Oh, Andy, you should know some of the nuts I’ve known! I’ll say they can be wild! I’ll call you later at the office. Don’t try to call me.”

“H
I
, A
ETNA
. W
ILL
you patch me through to the sheriff, please?”

“Hydy, Mister Fletcher. How’s everything at the farm this fine morning? You all survive the big storm last night?”

“Just fine, Aetna. We’re as slick as a boxer after the tenth round.”

Fletch wondered if the dispatcher for the county sheriffs office recognized the voice of everyone in the county. Once, only by recognizing a woman’s voice had she sent the Rescue Squad to the right farm. She was credited with saving the woman’s life. She also had a great ear for music. She led the county’s most accomplished Baptist choir.

“The sheriff’s actin’ right tired this morning, Mister Fletcher.”

“I expect so.”

“Say, Mister Fletcher, while I have you on the phone, will you tell Carrie that Angie Kelly has that recipe for firecracker cake Carrie wanted?”

“Angie Kelly. Firecracker cake.”

“Who’s talking about firecracker cake on this line?”

Fletch recognized Sheriff Rogers’s gravelly voice. It was more gravelly than usual this morning.

Aetna said, “Mister Fletcher’s on the line, Sheriff.”

The sheriff said, “I sincerely doubt Mister Fletcher is interested in the recipe for firecracker cake.”

Fletch said, “I don’t even know what firecracker cake is. Listen, Sheriff, I have two of them.”

“Cakes?”

“Convicts. Escaped convicts.”

“Where?”

“One of them is dead. We found him in the gully behind my barns. Looks like the snakes got him, and then maybe he drowned.”

“Describe him.”

“Hispanic.”

“I’m prepared to call that a good arrest, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Describe the other convict to me.”

“Heavyset. Caucasian. None too bright.”

“Okay. Restrain him however you can. We’ll come pick him up.”

“Please, no.”

“No?”

“Carrie is going to drive him out to the intersection of Worthy Road and The Old County Pike. He’ll be penned up in the back of the pickup truck. She’ll pretend she’s run out of gas. As soon as she stops at the intersection there, you guys swarm him.”

“Why you want to do it that way? Why don’t we just come shoot the bastard your place?”

“I don’t particularly want that to happen.”

“Oh, I see. Sorry, Fletch. Your wife. Princess … You don’t want the unpleasantness of a police action your place. Might attract the tourists, uh? Cause the press to reprise the assassination. Is that it?”

“Something like that.” One way and another, Fletch had learned the importance of creating a diversion.

“We do it my way, he’ll be docile. We’re telling him Carrie is helping him escape. He’s a real big guy. He’ll be half asleep. This way, all you need do is step out of the woods, swarm him, and chain him.”

“Sure.” The sheriff was slurring his words, just slightly. “We’ll blow him away wherever you say.”

“Carrie doesn’t particularly need to see anyone blown away, either, here, there, or anywhere.”

“Okay. I understand. We’ve got to protect the ladies.” The sheriff burped. “And their gardens. We’ll tiptoe out of the woods and take him off Carrie’s truck as gently as a potted petunia. Say again where she will be?”

“At the intersection of Worthy Road and Old County Pike. She’ll be there at nine o’clock sharp.”

“Okay. Nine o’clock sharp.”

This rank, nonsensical interference in normal police procedure was proving easier than Fletch had thought.

“Worthy Road and Old County Pike, nine o’clock,” Fletch repeated.

“I’ve got it. We’ll be there. In tennis shoes.”

“By the way, Sheriff, will you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“This morning I’m driving my son and his professor down to the University of North Alabama. In the station wagon. They absolutely have to be there by eleven o’clock. Will you tell your guys and the state troopers please to let us through any roadblocks without delay?”

“Sure. I even recall your vanity license plate. I’ll put that on the radio right away. After what you’ve done: capturin’ those two guys. We’ve been up all night.”

“Sorry. You must be tired.”

“Rain that hard, ordinarily I would have called the hunt off. Sent everybody home. I mean, if we were just huntin’ ornery critters.”

“There will be three of us in the car. And Carrie will meet you at Worthy Road and Old Pike intersection at nine o’clock exactly.”

“This is great!” the sheriff said. “Only one left!”

The line went dead before Fletch could check the sheriff’s arithmetic.

Y
our name is
Carrie?” Not having heard him enter the kitchen, she was leaning over, putting a frying pan in the dishwasher. When she stood up, her tanned face was slightly reddened, not, Jack suspected, from exertion.

“Broom Hilda,” Carrie said. “I’m a witch.”

Jack dropped two paper plates and a plastic knife and fork into the wastebasket by the back door of the kitchen. “That was Kriegel who said that.”

“There’s a difference?” Carrie said.

“Yes,” Jack said. “There’s a difference.”

“He’s soft. Ugly. Sayin’ things that aren’t polite don’t make any more sense than fleas bitin’ a shag rug.”

“And I am …” Jack stood, the light in the opened back door behind him, in the coolness of the kitchen. “… What?”

Arms akimbo, Carrie said, “What are you? Only God and you know that, and I suspect you’re confused.”

“Confused?” Jack seemed to consider the question. “Maybe. I don’t think so. Maybe I’m not what you think I am.”

“Not Fletch’s son?”

“I’m Fletch’s son. You said yourself we look alike. Have the same bodies. Builds. Whatever you said.”

“You surely do favor him. You’re standin’ there fifteen feet away from me, head down a little bit, starin’ at me half-solemn, half-humorous, hands at your sides, all-neat and all-gangly at the same time just the way Fletch did before we ever touched each other. And a million times since.” Carrie asked, “Are you comin’ on to me, boy?”

“No, ma’am. I’m surely not.”

“You speak Southern pretty good, too, when you want to. I had to teach Fletch, and he never will get it right.”

“You must love him,” Jack said.

“Because I teach him Southern ways?”

“Because you’re putting up with our being here.” He grinned. “Because you haven’t shot any of us yet. ‘Course, I haven’t seen Kriegel lately.”

“He’s sleepin’ the sleep of the unjust. Does it surprise you, our puttin’ up with you all the way we’re doin’?”

“No. It’s what I expected. From him. He has a reputation for being curious.”

“Peculiar, you mean. We’re not at all afraid of you bunch, you know.”

“Clearly not.”

“Should we be?”

“Not of me.” Jack glanced through the windows. Outside, on the grassy slope, Leary slept. “As for the others, for a reason I’ve just recently figured out, they seem peculiarly weary this morning. Weak. Or dead. They spent the night in
a gully fighting off snakes, rushing water, and God knows what else.”

Across the kitchen, Jack and Carrie gave each other a smile as brief as a glance.

“What does puzzle me,” Jack said, “is your manners. The manners of both of you.”

“Come again?”

“Neither one of you has said to me, simply, ‘Hello. How are you?’”

Carrie asked, “Did you or did you not arrive here out of a storm in the middle of the night, carryin’ three desperadoes with you?”

“Still…”

“I didn’t hear that you exactly knocked politely on the front door and came in all full of smiles sayin’, ‘Hello, I’m your son, Jack. How are you?’ Did you?”

“Not exactly.”

“Besides,” Carrie answered in a milder tone, “generally, Fletch doesn’t hold much stock in simple questions. He says, when you ask a question all you get is an answer to the question, not the truth. He says, to get the truth it’s best to wait and watch and listen.”

“Oh, yes,” Jack said. “I have heard that about him.”