“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.
8
Your 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.”
“From your mother?”
“Yes. And others.”
“Did your mother love Fletch?”
“Yes.”
“Does she still?”
“Yes. And me.”
“What does she say about your bein’ put in prison? I’ll bet she’s proud.”
Jack turned his face away from her. “I’ll bet she is.”
“Well.” Carrie sighed. “One thing is sure about Mister Fletch. We’re goin’ to understand all this before we’re done, or die tryin’. And that includes you.”
Jack asked, “Why don’t you ask me how I feel?”
“About what?”
Jack lifted his arms from his sides. “About everything.”
“Oh, yes,” Carrie said. “Fletch calls you the tactile generation. For short, he calls you the scabpickers. What you know, what you do isn’t important, only what you feel. Well, let me tell you somethin’, boy: what you feel is important, all right, but there isn’t enough time on earth to know or care about all that you feel.”
Jack stared at her. “Suppress feelings?”
“No, of course not,” Carrie said. “Take a potshot at a woman cop because you feel like it. Maybe you’ll get to go on a teevee talk show so you can talk about your feelin’s. For fifteen minutes some people will say, ‘Poor you,’ and you’ll still end up in the jailhouse.” More gently, she said, “So how do you feel?”
“Weird,” Jack said. “I just met my father for the first time. I just met you. I see this place where you live.” He waved one arm. “You’ve got horses that sneak up behind you in the dark of the night and try to nibble the hair off your head! You’ve got goddamned oil paintings on the walls of your kitchen!”