Barbara said, “I don’t know how I feel about it.”
“How you feel?”
“No.” She continued to stand a meter away from him.
Sweat, humidity: Fletch was having difficulty keeping the paper dry to write.
“We need to get packed,” Fletch said. “We’re starting home tonight.”
“Once we came here to camp, we never really unpacked. Just underwear.”
“I guess we don’t need to pack the torn sweaters and cutoff ski pants.”
“I’ll hang them from the trees. Maybe the monkeys will wear ’em. Suits them.”
“Still. We must repack.”
“It’s not as if I’m overburdened with souvenirs.”
“You have some memories. For the long ride.”
“I never even sent my mother a postcard.”
“You can send her one from home. Where’s Carr?”
“In his tent. He’s writing something, too.”
“His version of events.”
“He says he thinks it will clear up enough for us to take off at noon.”
Fletch looked out through the tent flap Barbara had left askew. “Can’t take off in this rain.”
Barbara said: “So I heard.”
“Your father was a murderer.” Barbara was buckling herself into her airplane seat aboard the midnight flight to London from Nairobi. “Won’t your mother love that? Think of all the books she’s written looking for the murderer.”
Fletch was already buckled into his seat. He sighed.
He said nothing.
He had a long way to go with the other passengers aboard.
He had a long way to go with Barbara.
After they were airborne and the No Smoking sign went off and the stewardesses demonstrated to the passengers what to do if the airplane ditched and the Fasten Seat Belt light went off, the voice over the public address system said, “Will passenger Fletcher please identify himself. Mr. I. M. Fletcher?”
Building a nest for herself in her seat, clearly Barbara did not hear the request.
Fletch took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
The rain had not lightened enough for them to take off from the camp until afternoon. Packing the airplane, Carr made lame jokes about the skis. No one looked down the runway track to where an airplane had crashed that morning, burned itself up; where there was still a corpse.
There was a good-bye scene of mixed emotion. The workmen, including Winston and Raffles, said good-bye individually. Sheila had hugs and kisses for Fletch, Barbara, and Juma. They were all sad to be parting, sad to be standing near a terrible death, yet each quite glad that something sought at great expense had been found, that a historic discovery had been made, and that each had been part of it.
Nor did Fletch look down for the burn hole in the woods as they took off.
He did not put on his new white sneakers, courtesy of the Norfolk Hotel, until they landed at Wilson Airport.
Juma and Carr helped them with their luggage to the International Airport. Juma stood with them while Carr took their return ticket to the airline counter.
The few people who were in the airport at that hour looked curiously at the skis.
Fletch said to Juma: “Nice time.”
Juma’s head tilted. “Sorry.”
“You have seats on tonight’s flight.” Their tickets and boarding passes were in Carr’s hand when he returned. “You have to take your luggage through Customs yourself. Do you have any Kenyan money? You have to turn it in.”
Both Barbara and Fletch dug out the few Kenyan shillings they had and handed them to Juma. Laughing, they both said: “No.”
Money in hand, Juma bent over laughing.
Carr said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a long time. The plane doesn’t leave until midnight.”
“Well be all right,” Fletch said. “I need to sit down.”
“You’ll feel all right on the flight?”
“Sure. I need the rest.”
“Well.” Carr looked around the nearly empty terminal. “There are things I must go do.”
Fletch said, “I understand.”
“One happy, one sad.”
“You’ll arrange for a funeral?” Barbara said.
Carr hesitated. “Oh, yes.”
Fletch said, “Carr … Peter Carr, we thank you—”
“No, no.” Turning away, his face reddened, Carr waved down Fletch’s speech. “Don’t embarrass us.”
Barbara said, “Thank you, Peter Carr.”
Fletch hugged Juma. “I’ll see you on television, kid.”
“See you on the funnies pages.”
While Barbara hugged Juma, Fletch hugged Carr. Then there was a general shaking of hands all ’round.
“Bye,” Carr said. “Fletch.”
Fletch said to Juma: “Friends?”
“Why not?” Juma asked. “Nice time.”
Fletch tilted his head.
The wait at the terminal seemed interminable. Barbara read magazines. Fletch thought over the account of the murder of Louis Ramon and the death of Walter Fletcher he had written and handed Carr.
Slowly it dawned on him that he had another story to write. A story much better than the stories of avalanches, mud slides, major earthquakes, airplane crashes, train wrecks, mass murders, airport bombings Frank Jaffe had requested. He had the story to write of Sheila and Peter Carr, the story of their historic discovery of the ruins of an ancient Roman city on the east coast of Africa.
After thinking about it, Fletch decided he would not mention to Barbara just yet that he would get a story for the newspaper out of their honeymoon.
Barbara nudged him. “That’s you.”
“What’s me?”
“They just paged you. Would passenger I. M. Fletcher please identify himself?’ she just said.”
“Oh.”
Fletch raised his hand. There were people milling about in the aisles.
“Maybe we get a free bottle of champagne,” Barbara said. “That would nice.”
“You’re always hoping.”
“Mr. Fletcher?”
“Yes.”
The stewardess handed him a letter.
“Mail delivery in midair?” he asked.
“Someone sent it aboard requesting it be delivered to you after takeoff. Would you like a drink?”
“No, thanks.” Opening the envelope, Fletch said to Barbara, “It’s from Carr.”
“Oh. No champagne.”
The letter read:
