Fletch did not even taste his chili.
“Guess what happened?” Carrie asked.
“Tell me.”
“Three of these jerks came down to the trailers. At first they just stood and stared at me. Pulling from beer cans and whiskey bottles. Eyes bulging, you know? Pants bulging. I’ve seen it before.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“No need to. They came closer. Began making remarks. You know.”
“About you?”
“Sure. They were spread out, one on each side, one in the middle, making a triangle, so I couldn’t have gotten off the porch of the trailer. Fletch, I really believe they would have done it right there, in front of the women and children. You know? Put me in my place.”
“Carrie!”
“Calm down. Guess who showed up and smashed two of their heads together and kicked the third one’s ass so hard I declare he fractured his tailbone.”
“Jack.”
“No. Leary.”
“Uh?”
“Leary. He roared at them, ‘Leave my lady alone! She’s nice to me! She’s my friend!’” Carrie giggled.
Cross-legged, Leary sat near them in the shade. He was scooping chili from a huge plastic bowl with his fingers. Most of it made it into his mouth.
From his sharing the cattle pen on the back of the truck with a bull calf all the way down from the farm, his mouth—lips beaten, missing teeth—should have been too sore to take in food. The areas around his eyes were swollen and purple. The gash on his shoulder had not been cleaned any more than the rest of him. The manure on his overalls and in his hair had dried.
Still shirtless in the split overalls, his skin looked painfully red from sunburn. He was covered with festering tick bites.
“We sure have been nice to him,” Fletch drawled. “We surely have.”
“I guess he thinks so. Nicer than anybody else, I guess. For the rest of the afternoon he has stayed within three or four meters of me. I swanee, I’m safer here than at a Daughters of the American Revolution convention!”
Fletch said, “Glad he appreciates all we’ve done for him.”
“There’s something else I must tell you.”
“Isn’t attempted gang rape enough?”
“I snuck over for a peek at the license plate of that forest-green Saturn.”
Fletch shrugged. “Oh?”
“Fletch, the license plate is from our county.”
Even without having tasted the chili, Fletch felt a very unpleasant sensation in his belly. “Carrie, you and I both know Sheriff Joe Rogers. I’ve been huntin’ and fishin’ with him. He’s been to the farm more often than the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Never by word or deed has he expressed anything racist I’ve noticed.”
“Only an ignoramus would, in front of you.”
Again, Fletch said, “It must be a coincidence. There must be more than one green Saturn in the county.”
Carrie said, “I’m pretty sure it’s Francie’s car.”
Quietly, Fletch said, “I sincerely hope it isn’t.”
Carrie said, “That makes two of us, bubba.”
“Carrie, why don’t you climb into the truck and take yourself home?”
“What are you doin’ here?”
“Watching. Listening. Thinking.”
“You think you’re at a railroad crossing, or something?”
“We know this young man is a liar.”
“We do?”
“While you and Jack were shopping I stayed in the car and used the phone.”
“I guessed as much.”
Fletch said, “There was no inmate in the federal penitentiary at Tomaston, Kentucky, or in any federal penitentiary, named Faoni. Never has been.”
Carrie swallowed the last spoonful of chili out of her bowl. “Faoni was stenciled on his shirt. So were the words ‘Federal Penitentiary Tomaston.’”
“I know. Anybody can stencil anything on clothes.”
“So this kid wasn’t in prison?”
“This kid must have been. How else would he know and have the trust of Kriegel, Leary…. But if he was in prison, his name isn’t Faoni.”
“So this kid isn’t your son.”
“The question remains on the floor, as the parliamentarian said, considering the chair.”
“Is there a John Fletcher Faoni? You think he may have just known Crystal, and he’s making this whole thing up?”
“There is a John Fletcher Faoni. Son of Crystal Faoni. And he did go to school in Bloomington, Chicago, and Boston.”
“So?”
“According to his mother’s secretary, John Fletcher Faoni is spending the summer in Greece.”
“In Greece,” Carrie repeated. “Well, this surely isn’t Greece.”
“No. It isn’t.”
“It’s not even on the way to Greece, from anywhere much.”
“No. So we know this kid lies. If he lies about one thing, why not lie about everything? There’s no point in asking a liar for the truth, is there? I just have to cool it. Watch, wait, and listen. Why is he lying? Who is he? What’s his purpose?”
“You didn’t speak to Crystal herself?”
“No. She’s out of pocket. Incommunicado on some sort of a fat farm. Well, it’s more than that: I guess it’s a place for people with serious food addictions. Andy Cyst did not succeed in getting through to her.”
Carrie said, “We’re all addicted to food.”
“There is a food addiction that is life-threatening.”
“Wow. Humans sure go awry easy. I was addicted to ice, once.”
“You needed iron. This young man said he shot at a cop. Is it true? This young man said he was in prison for attempted murder. Is it true? This young man says his name is John Fletcher Faoni. Not all of the above can be true.”
“This kid could be as crazy as a groundhog on ice.”
“True.”
“It’s a fact that he’s hanging’ out with these racists.”
“That’s why we’re here. Who is he? What is he? What does he want from me?”
“He’s the self-styled ‘lieutenant’ of the murdering self-styled leader of a self-styled international hate group.”
“As some journalists would put it, ‘He sure appears to be goin’ with this particular flow.’”
“I suspect it’s not every man’s dream to discover his son is a cop-killing, escaped convict, racist, hate-group organizer.”
“It’s not a dream that has ever occurred to me.”
“So if he’s such a jerk, even if he is your kid, why should you care enough to stay here?”
“If I leave now I might lose track of him forever. Then I’ll never know the truth.”
“Maybe you won’t want to know the truth.”
“I always want to know the truth.”
“The truth can make you a prisoner, Fletch.”
“Carrie, I want you to go home.”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“‘Cause if I go I’ll be worried to death about you.”
“I’ve been in worse situations.”
“If I stay, I’m pretty sure you’ll get us both out in time.”
“In time for what?”
Carrie was looking at the dark hills surrounding the encampment. “This is a foreboding place.”
Fletch said, “Speak of the specter.”
Jack was under the trees coming toward them. From one hand dangled headphones on short wires.
“Don’t speak of ghosts to me.” Carrie leaned forward in her car seat and watched Jack approach. “The kid walks like you.”
“Yeah. He puts one foot in front of the other. Don’t see just what you want to see, miss.”
“His hips and shoulders don’t move when he walks. Just his legs.”
“Sure,” Fletch muttered. “As evidence, that’s not exactly equal to a DNA test, is it?”