“I understand.”
“Book rights and film rights to Faoni, if he wants them. He’ll be on the Air T flight from Huntsville arriving at Washington’s National Airport at ten thirty-six EDT.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Andy?”
“Yes, Mister Fletcher?”
“Please don’t call me later. Okay? I need to get some sleep.”
“Gee, Mister Fletcher. I’d never think of disturbing your sleep. Never. Not ever.”
After clicking off the phone connection, Fletch handed Jack his airplane ticket. “I got this for you at two o’clock this morning in Atlanta. You even have an assigned seat.”
While Jack studied his ticket, Fletch said to Jack, “A woman named Slavenka Drakulic, a victim of the most recent Balkan ethnic-cleansing wars, wrote in The New York Times Sunday Magazine: ‘We are the war. I am afraid there is no one else to blame. We all make it possible. We allow it to happen. There is no them and us. There are no numbers, masses, categories. There is only one of us and, yes, we are responsible for each other.’”
“Got a pen and piece of paper?” Jack asked.
“In the glove compartment. Just thought that quote might add something to your story, if it fits in anywhere.”
“How do you spell her name?”
“By golly. The kid can even work pen and paper!”
FLETCH STOPPED THE station wagon outside Air T’s departure gate at Huntsville Airport. “I won’t be going in with you, if you don’t mind. Home and bed for me. Thanks for the interesting weekend.”
Before getting out of the car, Jack said, “You went to Wisconsin yesterday to see my mother.”
“She sent her best.”
“How did she seem to you?”
“She kept herself concealed behind a curtain, Jack. I couldn’t really see her.”
“Oh.”
“As astute as ever.”
Jack got out of the car.
“Wait a minute,” Fletch said.
On the sidewalk, Fletch unbuttoned his shirt. “You’ve been wearing that shirt since Friday night. Mine isn’t exactly fresh, either, but at least, for the most part, I’ve been in air-conditioning since I put it on yesterday morning. I don’t want you put off the plane because you stink even higher to heaven.”
“Switch shirts?”
“Why not?”
“Here?”
“We have a choice? You don’t have time to buy a new shirt.”
“No. I don’t.”
On the sidewalk, Fletch and Jack switched shirts.
Jack’s shirt smelled really bad. It felt grimy.
Jack asked, “How did you know I didn’t shoot at that cop? Because I didn’t know how to load the gun you handed me?”
“More than that.”
“What?”
“I doubt you’d attempt anything without accomplishing it. Even murder.”
FLETCH WAS WITHIN ten miles of the farm.
As soon as he could after leaving Huntsville Airport he had stopped at a truck stop for coffee. Before even ordering his coffee, he had bought a new shirt and thrown Jack’s into a rubbish barrel.
His new T-shirt had a logo on it which read: WHY HUG THE ROAD WHEN YOU’VE GOT ME?
He had a choice of either that logo or a beer advertisement.
Fletch felt strangely lonely.
The sight of Jack heading into the airport terminal in Fletch’s own shirt, carrying his plastic shopping bag full of a Big Story on disks and audio and videotapes, that silly small tattoo of a blue eye staring behind him from the top of the calf muscle of his left leg, almost winking as he walked … the way Jack turned before going through the circular door, grinned and waved at Fletch, knowing full well his father was watching him …
He was missing the kid.
Shoot. I didn’t even know he existed before Friday.
Fletch found the phone on the car seat beside him and pressed the number of the farm.
Carrie answered. “Hello?”
“Hello.”
“Where are you?”
“I’ll be home in a few minutes.”
“That’s good. Hey, Fletch! Guess what?”
“What?”
“I made a firecracker cake!”
Fletch said, “Oh, boy.”
FB2 document info
Document ID: 8968cdb1-cf77-45b5-afe7-3a331f551a32
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 31.5.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.53, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Gregory McDonald
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Son of Fletch f-10 Page 19