It was not until they were standing at the front of the terrace, next to Junior and Jake Williams, that Fletch looked directly at the men.
Hands in pockets, appearing totally relaxed, watching the helicopter land, was the Vice-President of the United States.
Helena Williams spotted him the same time Fletch did.
She began to rush toward him from the other side of the terrace.
What she was saying was drowned out by the noise of the helicopter.
Junior, remaining oblivious to the presence of the Vice-President of the United States beside him, suddenly rocked back on his heels.
He put his hand up to his face, as if he were about to sneeze.
Fletch saw blood on Junior’s neck.
Then a splotch of blood appeared on Junior’s white shirt, next to his necktie.
Fletch started toward Junior.
Junior lost his balance and fell against the Vice-President.
Someone screamed.
Jake Williams yelled, “Junior!”
Junior rolled as he fell.
Landing on his back on the flagstones, the two splotches of blood, on his neck and on his shirt, were clearly visible.
Helena was kneeling over him.
Even over the sound of the helicopter, Fletch could hear Jake Williams shout, “Someone is trying to kill the Vice-President!”
One of the four men with the Vice-President spun him around, toward the hotel.
The other three surrounded him closely.
One held his hand out behind the Vice-President’s head, as if to shield him from the sun.
They pushed him through the crowd into the hotel.
Crystal Faoni had joined Helena Williams in kneeling over Junior.
Crystal was trying to blow air into Junior’s mouth.
The helicopter had settled on the lawn, and its door was opening.
Fletch looked across the lawn, and ran his eyes as closely as he could along the line of trees.
Men in Marine Corps uniform were getting off the helicopter.
At first, Fletch moved very slowly, backing away from the crowd, turning, jumping off the terrace, ambling across the lawn.
He did not break into a full run for the stables until he was well-concealed by the trees.
Thirty-five
Fletch had no plan.
He could find no one at the stables, so he saddled the horse he had used twice before, fumbling, as he hadn’t saddled a horse himself in a long time, alarming the horse with his haste.
Once clear of the paddock area, he laid the whip on her and she poured on speed, but only for a very few moments.
She was a pleasant horse, but not too swift.
Clearly, in all her days on Hendricks Plantation, she had never been asked to be in a sincere hurry.
By the time they had climbed the ridge and were approaching the camper along the timber road she was winded and resentful.
Fletch left her in the deep shade of the woods about twenty meters up the hillside from the camper.
He still had no plan.
The camper was open, but the keys weren’t in the ignition.
He looked for the keys under the driver’s seat, over the visor, in the map compartment, then, hurrying, moved back into the camper, flipping over the mattress of the unmade bed, glancing in the cabinets, the oven, under the seat cushions of the two chairs.
He went through the pockets of a dark suit hanging from a curtain rod.
On a shelf was an old cigar box. Inside were screws, nails, a few sockets for a wrench, half a pouch of Bull Durham tobacco, and a set of keys, somewhat rusted.
He tried the keys in the ignition.
The third key on the chain fit.
He left it in the ignition.
Standing by the camper, he realized he still didn’t have a plan.
From down the road, around the bend, he heard someone cough.
Mentally, Fletch thanked his horse, up in the woods, for being quiet.
Fletch flattened himself against the wall of the camper, next to the rear wheels.
He stuck his head out for a look only once.
Joseph Molinaro was walking toward the camper, ten meters away, a rifle under his right arm.
It had not occurred to Fletch before this that, of course, Joseph Molinaro would be carrying a rifle.
He had not thought to arm himself.
There was no time to go back into the camper.
The few branches and stones in the road at his feet were too small and light to make good weapons.
He had no more time to think.
Fletch had left the camper through the driver’s door.
Molinaro was at the back of the camper, heading for the door near the right rear wheels.
Crouching, looking under the camper, Fletch watched Molinaro’s feet.
As soon as Molinaro was on the other side of the camper, Fletch moved around to its rear and along its wall.
Just as Molinaro was beginning to climb the three steps into the camper, beginning to bend to go through the door, Fletch hit him on the back of his head, hard, with the side of his hand.
The force of the blow knocked Molinaro’s head against the solid door frame.
Instinctively tightening his arm over the rifle, Molinaro fell up the steps, half-in and half-out of the camper.
He rolled over.
His eyes remained open only a second or two.
He appeared to recognize Fletch.
Having already been unconscious once that morning, Molinaro’s head settled back on the camper’s floor, and he went deeply unconscious.
Fletch took the rifle from under his arm and slid it along the floor of the camper, toward the front.
Picking up Molinaro’s legs, Fletch slid his back along the linoleum floor until Molinaro was entirely aboard the camper and the door could be closed.
Fletch climbed the steps to the camper and stepped over Molinaro.
He tore two strips from the bed sheet and tied Molinaro’s ankles together.
Then he tied his wrists together, in front of him.
He slammed the back door of the camper, climbed into the driver’s seat, and turned the key in the ignition.
The battery was dead.
Incredulous, Fletch senselessly tried the key three or four times.
