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.”